The human breed, And root out here and there some cumbering elf, With profit to the world and to myself,— Who cannot or who will not pay, These, for my own sake, I'd destroy; Called only by herself an 66 only joy." But for the peace of years that have to run, By rooting up all Aldermen but one,These are but hints what good might thus be done! But ah! I fear the public good Is little by the public understood,— For instance-if with flint, and steel, and tender, Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats, The economy political Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats. Equally 'twould be undone, When all the large small family of charity, Walk in their dusty parish shoes, To sing together till they scare the walls Sitting in red, gray, green, blue, drab, and white, Tho' I think sad-but that's a schism- Down that immense extinguisher, the dome- Thus, people hatched from goose's egg, And in its face their doors all shut, Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags At hoisting up of yellow flags, While you and I are crying "Orange Boven!" A GOOD DIRECTION. A CERTAIN gentleman, whose yellow cheek Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day; Who, better starred than Alchemists of old, Our Patient, after some impatient rambles Pray which is Mr Aberfeldie's house?" At last made answer, with a broadish grin : 66 Why, turn to right—and left—and right agin, The road's direct-you cannot fail to go it." "But stop! my worthy fellow !-one word more— From other houses how am I to know it? "How!—why you'll see blue pillars at the door?" THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT! "So while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all; behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, Sir, here is the picture!" LYDIA LANGUISH. O DAYS of old, O days of Knights, Of tourneys and of tilts, When love was balked and valour stalked Where are ye gone ?-adventures cease, The world gets tame and flat, We've nothing now but New Police- I wish I ne'er had learned to read, Or Radcliffe how to write; That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloister'd quite ! Would I had never drunk so deep I only turn to life, and weep- No Bandits lurk-no turbaned Turk I hear no noises in the night No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house, Come fitting after moth or mouse,— I have not any grief profound, My story would not fetch a pound As if I lived on beef and ale- It's very hard, by land or sea, I vowed, and railed, and came home safe,- The only time I had a chance My chestnut mare began to prance, Alas! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat; A Butcher caught the rein at length,— Love-even love-goes smoothly on No flinty sire, no jealous Don! No hearts upon the rack; No Polydore, no Theodore His ugly name is Mat, Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more— There's no Romance in that! He is not dark, he is not tall,-— He comes from Wales and yet in size |