With a Fan To the Mother

This is a fan for my mother
               No other.
Shall I then descant on its use
               In manner diffuse. 
Maunder of passion and sighs
And the light of your luminous eyes
I am a novice these jobs on
They are the stroke of A Dobson. 

No 'tis a chaperone's fan
               Dreaded  by Man— 
Signalling over the room
               The signal of doom—
When the hours of the night have grown small 
               At the end of a ball
And Trixie the wilful demurs
At the hookum for carriage and furs— 
Wherefore your offspring would urge 
Use it dear mum for a scourge.

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