Why, I _never_ talk scandal, you goose, and you know it;
It's no fascination whatever to _me_.
I _could_ tell some, of course, for we county folk grow it
Like so many apples and pears on a tree.
I repeat, I detest such a thing beyond measure.
I'm not like dear MAUD, who my husband declares
Was invented and made to exist on the pleasure
Of dragging to light other people's affairs.
_She_ would forward you scandalous tales by the dozen--
There's no one like _her_ if you want any news.
I declare she's as bad as her wretch of a cousin,
Who's bolted with Major FITZ-DASH, of the Blues.
Now, for instance, she told me (in confidence, mind you)
That Captain BLANK CARTRIDGE, when playing at Nap,
Has an odious habit of getting behind you,
And calling according to what's on your lap.
(By the way, we have only just heard that the Major,
Who gave Lady B. such a beautiful horse,
Is a perfect _Don Juan_, and quite an old stager
At playing a prominent part in divorce.)
More than that, she assures me (although I don't doubt it)
That D., though apparently sober and staid,
Is a flirt, and that people are talking about it
Indignantly here.
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