Come, sisters, weep!—our Baron dear,
Alas! has run away.
If always we had kept him here
He had not gone astray.
Painter and grainer it were vain
To say he was, before;
And if he were, yet ne’er again
He’ll darken here a door.
We mourn each matrimonial plan—
Even tradesmen join the cry:
He was so promising a man
Whenever he did buy.
He was a fascinating lad,
Deny it all who may;
Even “moneyed” men confess he had
A very taking way.
So from our tables he is gone—
Our tears descend in showers;
We loved the very fat upon
His kidneys, for ’twas ours.
To women he was all respect
To duns as cold as ice;
No lady could his suit reject,
No tailor get its price.
He raised our hope above the sky;
Alas! alack! and O!
That one who worked it up so high
Should play it down so slow.