“ Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass.
I was a fool—perchance I am so still;
You won't accept it! Let me dream you will:
But that were idle. Shall we meet again?
Why should we? Water for my burning brain?
I could have loved thee—Could! I love thee yet
Can only Lethe teach me to forget?
Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find!
Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind?
Or is it?—ha! at last I see it come;
Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum.
A SERENADE. PUNCH. Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT?
CONFOUND THE CAT!) —
Smile, lady, smile! ”

“ When first I woo'd thee, dear!
By that great vow which bound thee
Forever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task—
A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask.
THE BITER BIT. WILLIAM AYTOUN. The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me! ”

“ EATING SONG. PUNCH. Oh! carve me yet another slice,
O help me to more gravy still,
There's naught so sure as something nice
To conquer care, or grief to kill.
I always loved a bit of beef,
When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;
And now it gives my heart relief
In sorrow's darksome hour—to dine!
THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH. A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take;
But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache.
Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam. ”

“ When Lady Jane is in a pet,
Or Hobby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beauheu spoils a curry:
For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby:
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk—
Or shiver in the lobby;
I wish that I could run away
From House, and court, and levee,
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys, grown heavy;
That I could bask in childhood's sun,
And dance o'er childhood's roses;
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit and broken noses ”

“ THE POPLAR. R. HARRIS BARHAM. Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—
We carved HER initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov'd patronymic—ah! can it be so?
Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing ”

“ Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;
Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine)
Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty;
Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief,
I have always found eating a wondrous relief ”

“ Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,
That I again will woo—
By all our past delights, my dear,
No more the marriage chain I'll wear,
Deil take me if I do!
THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY. PETER PINDAR. A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel,
To parry from his soul the wrath Divine,
That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple,
Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine;
Who every day is gorgeously decked out,
In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small,
Just like a fine young lady for a rout,
A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball. ”

“ Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."
"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile:
"From malt, malt, malt—I meant malt all the while."
"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
"An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure."
"Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply,
"I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."
Now this was wise in Whitbread—here we find
A very pretty knowledge of mankind;
As monarchs never must be in the wrong,
'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue,
To tell a little fib, or some such thing,
To save the sinking credit of a king. ”

“ My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence.
But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,—
Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me."
"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am;
I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am.
I've some, as well,—no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't,
ma'am,
Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am."
"There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing." ”

“ Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glistens gold.
THE RETIRED CAT. WILLIAM COWPER. A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick;
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master. ”

“ COMIC MISERIES. JOHN G. SAXE. My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,—
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,—
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain—
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again! ”

“ For the FLESH of the VERYS—I'll visit their BONES!"
He insists upon MY going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie
Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—Good-by.
B. F.
Four o'clock.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never;
To think of the wretch!—what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die!
My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick! ”

“ How BLACKWOOD
Is honored!
ALISON! AYTOUN!
BULWER!!!
And last, not least
The great SAM GANDERAM!!!!
Oh EBONY!
Oh MAGA!
And oh
Our noble selves!
"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH. The partial power that to the female race
Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace,
With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one,
And to another gives as good as none:
But woman still for nature proves a match,
And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. ”

“ Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK,
Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;
And Royalty to crack his joke—
But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too.
LYING. THOMAS MOORE. I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath'd you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion! ”

“ PUNCH.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'd
A youth, whose look told in a trice
That his taste chose the queer device—
PROCLIVIOR!
His hat, a wide-awake; beneath
He tapp'd a cane against his teeth;
His eye was bloodshot, and there rung,
Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue,
PROCLIVIOR!
In calm first-floors he saw the light
Of circles cosy for the night;
But far ahead the gas-lamps glow;
He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow,"
PROCLIVIOR!
"Come early home," his Uncle said,
"We all are early off to bed;
The family blame you far and wide;" ”

“ As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.
As smooth as glass, as white as curds
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as her needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.
Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:
Good Lord! how all men envied me! ”

“ There is, certainly, nothing more delightful than the fun of a man of genius. Humor, as Mr. Thackeray observes, is charming, and poetry is charming, but the blending of the two in the same composition is irresistible. There is much nonsense in this book, and some folly, and a little ill-nature; but there is more wisdom than either. They who possess it may congratulate themselves upon having the largest collection ever made of the sportive effusions of genius. ”

“ You're not the poorest man in Lille.
My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
IV. Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,
And at a Popish altar kneel?
O do not leave me in the lurch,—
I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!
Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops
The miserablest man in Lille.
And lo! as I beheld with awe
A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real)
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!—
It did! and I had hope in Lille! ”

“ In this cathedral I do every thing;
Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."
"Hey? verger! verger!—you the verger?—hey?"
"Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE,"
The verger answered, with the mildest mien.
Then turned the king about toward the peer,
And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,
"Hey, hey—what, what—fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him—hey, my lord?"
[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.] ”

“ Whitbread forth he sent a page,
To say that majesty proposed to view,
With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed,
His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed,
And learn the noble secret how to brew.
Of such undreamt-of honor proud,
Meet reverently the brewer bowed;
So humbly (so the humble story goes,)
He touched even terra firma with his nose;
Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus,
"Happy are we that our great king should name us,
As worthy unto majesty to show,
How we poor Chiswell people brew." ”

“ Yet often should the little god retire—
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.
TO A FLY, TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH. PETER PINDAR. Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul—
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch. ”

“ Or Harry?—'Tis too bad, upon my word:
George is a clever king, I needs must own,
And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.
Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray
What to the devil shall I sing or say?"
I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom:
Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying,
His gracious eyes and ears was edifying,
By abbey company and kettle drum:
Leaving that son to death and the physician,
Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition;
Two poachers, who make man their game,
And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim. ”

“ THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN Air—"The days we went a-gipsying."
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago. ”

“ Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.
II. But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined
To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind;
And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one,
That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one.
Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool;
Never calls me a monster—not even a fool;
All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up,
And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:—
Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished—Heav'n forgive me the flaw!—
That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law. ”

“ ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD. SAMUEL ROGERS "They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it;
He has a heart—and gets his speeches by it."
EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON. TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'" Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt,
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why should we weep, I can't find out,
Unless for THEE we weep in pity. ”

“ It shows that decency may live with kings,
On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs;
And shows (for numerous are the naked things)
That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.
ODE TO THE DEVIL. PETER PINDAR. The devil is not so black as he is painted.
Ingratum Odi.
Prince of the dark abodes! I ween
Your highness ne'er till now hath seen
Yourself in meter shine;
Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere.
Sweet warbled on your smutty ear,
Before this Ode of mine.
Perhaps the reason is too plain,
Thou triest to starve the tuneful train,
Of potent verse afraid! ”

“ Within a year we met once more,
'Twas in another part of town—
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!"
He came out rather stronger,
As if he'd say with toss of head,
"Wait a little longer."
Time takes us on through many a grace;
Of "ups and downs" I've had my run,
Passing full often through the shade
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain—
He bade me wait the longer. ”

“ I'll teach your highness in a trice
To set them all a quaking.
Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy:
Lock up each charming fille de joie;
Give race-horses the glander—
The dice-box break, and burn each card—
Let virtue be its own reward,
And gag the mouth of slander;
In one week's time, I'll lay my life,
There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,
That will not glad agree,
If thou will chaim'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God for thee.
Tis now full time my ode should end:
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee ”

“ Therefore it was that the fancy
Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.
But, then, said Satan to himself
As for that said beginner,
Against my infernal Majesty,
There is no greater sinner.
He hath put me in ugly ballads
With libelous pictures for sale;
He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns,
And has made very free with my tail.
But this Mister Poet shall find
I am not a safe subject for whim;
For I'll set up a School of my own,
And my Poets shall set upon him.
He went to a coffee-house to dine,
And there he had soy in his dish ”

“ The stars are all lighted and panting—
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!) O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd! ”

“ THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE There's somewhat on my breast father,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The live-long day I sigh, father,
At night I can not rest;
I can not take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so,
A weary weight oppresseth me—
The weary weight of woe!
'Tis not the lack of gold, father
Nor lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief,
But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief! ”