And Warde, who may oft go inside,

But will ne'er reach the top of the stage, Sir.

There's Connor, the Irish, and eke

One Power, (the Garden's a gainer,)
Who both the brogue easily speak,

And Yorkshiremen-Sherwin and Rayner.
There's Bartley, and Jones, and Tayleure,
And then we have Williams's many,
And Browne, and George Smith, to be sure,
Fitz-william, who never has any.

There's Dowton, a sterling old man,

Two Bennetts, one Penley, and Gattie ;

The notes of a Horn you may scan,

Or of Cooke take a savoury Patè.

Stiff Liston is going to laugh,

Sure no one will turn a bewailer, When, at Taverns, your bottle you quaff, You never were dunn'd by a Taylor.

There's Duruset's notes all so sweet,
And one, who'd set laughing a quaker,
Grimaldi, the younger, (a treat,)

And then we have also a Baker.

There's Meadows, I took him for French,
But better I've since understood, Sir,

Tired Elliston takes to the Bench,

The Punch of that Frenchman is good, Sir.

And if I've forgotten the rest,

Of course I may
I dare say you've seen them, at best,
If so, go, and see them again, Sir.
Dear actresses, lovely and bright,

throw down my pen, Sir,

My pen in the next number traces, So, at present, I wish them good night,

To dream of their sweet pretty faces.

P. T.

I was an orphan boy-but one there was
To whom I felt such strict obedience due
As one who had a parent to demand it—-
And sure, if gratitude e'er paid a debt,
Mine, must I think, is register'd in heaven;
For, to that period when the boyish look
Begins to ripen into manliness,

It was as true as ever brother felt!

VIRGIL.

But then! how alter'd! Yet, oh! judge me not

Too harshly; for it was not want of love

For him, that caused in me this vile neglect,

But rather (oh, consider well the cause
Before ye blame me !) an excess of it,
Almost approaching to idolatry,
Towards another!-

Oh, she was all perfection! When a smile
Illumined that face of heavenly brilliancy,
I'd not have changed my station at her feet
For all the kingdoms of this nether world!
"Twas heaven itself-I loved and was beloved.
Ecstatic thought! such bliss, such heavenly joy,
None can have felt but those who loved like me!
Affliction now fell heavy on my soul—
My brother died, and left me heir to all
His fortune. This aroused me to myself,
And now I felt indeed I had a conscience,
Torn by the thoughts of my neglect to him
Who had, when dying, not forgotten me.

But still I loved-that quell'd my raging breast; That thought alone possessed my inmost soul.

But misery was still in store for me:
I met a rival in my Julia's love!

I was not made for doubt, and trusted still
Her vows of love and lasting constancy—

I trusted still, and trusted but to find

Her vows were false-her constancy was gone!
And I became a wanderer from my home :
Friendless I wandered; for I could not bear
To live amid the scene of all my woe.
Fortune, indeed, I still possess'd; but, oh!
What is the wealth of all the eastern Ind
Withont a fond, a sympathetic heart,

In which to pour the trivial joys and woes,
That one inhabiting this busy world
Must feel!-

Far distant realms have since been trod by me:
Full listlessly I've crossed the stormy seas,
And pass'd through dangers that I knew not of.
Years have I been confined in slavery,
Deserts I've trod, and famine have I seen,
The hungry have I fed, the naked clothed;
And I have seen young beauty's tearful eye
Turn'd wistfully to heaven for my sake,
With silent, yet expressive, eloquence.

This have I seen, and this has made me feel

A momentary thrill of happiness

But though such thrills I've felt, a broken heart,
Like mine, can never, never love again.

DRACO.

MENS SIBI CONSCIA RECTI.

WHEN Joseph fled the fair Egyptian's arms,
Unconquer'd by the beauty of her charms,

He walk'd, though naked, through the open space,
For conscious virtue needs no hiding place.

P. T.

THE CRANIOLOGICAL SKULL.

"Croceos odores."-VIRGIL.

In a neat little street, in a neat little town,

Lived a neat little man, whose cognomen was Brown;
Now this neat little man had a neat little wife,

At the same time the comfort and plague of his life;
A friend too he had--of town surgeons the best,
Who the Craniological science profess'd-

Who had gain'd from his knowledge a great deal of FAME,
And, in consequence, PROPERTY-Green was his name.
Poor Brown was no genius, his mind was quite turn'd
By hearing Green's heady discussions, he burn'd

To become, like his friend, a phrenologist quite,
And craniological essays to write;

To be brief, all his study and time he devoted,

And miss'd nothing, in aught that those studies promoted; And now not a caput was e'er to be seen

way,

But 'twas quickly examin'd by Brown and by Green-
They, as once they had stopp'd to converse on the
Were o'ertaken by Mr. Phrenologist Grey,
Who hop'd he might soon introduce to their sight
A craniological friend, Mr. White;

Mr. White called soon after, was proud to be known
As the friend of a man so much noted as Brown.

Soon after this league of attachment was made,
Mr. Brown's better half in confinement was laid;
What raptures were felt by the neat little man
When the skull of his child he in fancy would scan !
What joy did he feel when the nurse, with a grace,
Held the child to receive the paternal embrace!
How surpriz'd was the unphrenological dame,
When she near to the four craniologists came,
Mr. Brown, Mr. Green, Mr. White, Mr. Grey,
All seiz'd on the baby and bore it away!

With rapid glances o'er its pate,
They read the infant's future fate;
Here rose the organ high in air
That perseverance would declare,

And here (than which all bumps were less)
of conceptiveness,

The organ

Imagination, too, was there,

And charity began to appear,

The bump of wit, the lump of sense,
The rising mound of eloquence-

According to its " Pa's" inspection,
All that would make the child perfection-
But how shall I express the spleen

That now was felt by Brown and Green?
And how shall I express the spite

Of fate, that touch'd both Grey and White?
When, dire misfortune! there, full clear,
Did to their wond'ring eyes appear—
(A scene that caused such grievous woe)
"What? death or murder's organ?" No!
But (if't be possible) a thing still worse—
So bad, indeed-it made them call the nurse!

DRACO.

CHRISTMAS.

THAT Christmas is not what it used to be, is an observation as

general as it is true; but the reasons for this change vary as much as the season itself has done. Some are willing to attribute it to the cant of the saints and Bobby Wilson's Spanish campaign. The greater part, however, agree in thinking that it is caused by the banishment of their national dance (as they term it, since they have mistaken its derivation) and the introduction of the elegant quadrille. Instead of being content to hop through a country dance to a piano, thrummed by the blushing fingers of one of the party; professional men are now introduced, with two fiddles-I beg pardon, violins I mean—and a harp. From this arise more inconveniences than are at first supposed; if musicians are to be engaged, the party must be