I go to the same church-a love-lost labour; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play; She does not seem to know she has a neighbour Over the way!

At private theatres she never acts;

No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts

Over the way!

To billets-doux by post she shows no favour—
In short, there is no plot that I can lay

To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!

I play the flute, she heeds not my chromatics,
No friend an introduction can purvey;

I wish a fire would break out in the attics
Over the way!

My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;
My baker feels my appetite's decay;
And as for butcher's meat-oh! she's my
Over the way!

At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!

I'm weary of my life; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette
Over the way!

I've fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;

butcher

I've vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray, Quite sick of number one-and number four

Over the way!

Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy.
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse, a cow, six fowls, a pig, and Mary,
Over the way!

Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!

I've cooed with her in dreams, like any turtle,
I've snatched her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and

Tay;

Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle

Over the way!

Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop, Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat "po-shay," And showered crowns to make the horses gallop Over the way!

And thrice I've started up from dreams appalling,
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray-

There is a young man very fond of calling
Over the way!

Oh! happy man-above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!

Nabob of Arcot-Despot of Jan-
Sultan of Persia-Emperor thay-
Much rather would I be the

With such a lot my heart wo
But what-O horror!-wha
Postilions and white favours

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

A NEW STYLE OF BLANK VERSE.

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun-one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ;—
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things

Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take Pall-Mall Sal,
up
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,

And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads

leads,

And sleepers waking, grumble—“ Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-w

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;

But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears-what faith is man's-Ann's banns

And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows'

woes!

DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I REALLY take it very kind,
This visit, Mrs. Skinner!

I have not seen you such an age-
(The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls

What heads for painters' easels!

Come here and kiss the infant, dears,

(And give it p'r'aps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home
From Reverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas very kind to bring them both,-
(What boots for my new Brussels !)

"What! little Clara left at home?
Well now I call that shabby:

I should have loved to kiss her so,-
(A flar, dabby, babby!)

S., I hope he's well,

he lives so handy, ww drops in to sup,or our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat-I long to hear

About Matilda's marriage;

You're come of course to spend the day!—
(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage !)

"What! must you go? next time I hope
You'll give me longer measure;
Nay-I shall see you down the stairs-
(With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all,
Next time you'll take your dinners!
(Now, David, mind I'm not at home
In future to the Skinners!")

EPIGRAMS.

COMPOSED ON READING A DIARY LATELY PUBLISHED.

THAT flesh is grass is now as clear as day,
To any but the merest purblind pup,
Death cuts it down, and then, to make her hay,
My Lady Bury comes and rakes it up.

THE LAST WISH.

WHEN I resign this world so briary,
To have across the Styx my ferrying,
O, may I die without a DIARY!

And be interred without a BURY-ing!

THE poor dear dead have been la
Turned into cash, they are laid