And Mrs. Smith, across the way,

Has got a grown-up son;

But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!

There's Mr. Wick, at Number Nine, But he's intent on pelf,

And, though he's pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.

At Number Seven there was a sale-
The goods had quite a run!
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days!

The very maids about the house

Have set me down a nun,

The sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
Young Mr. Long came kindly in,
And told me not to swoon.
Why can't he come again without
The Phoenix and the Sun?
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One.

I am not old! I am not plain,
Nor awkward in my gait;

I am not crooked like the bride

That went from Number Eight.

A PARENTAL ODE, TO MY SON, THREE YEARS OLD.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather light,

Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin

(Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy! There goes my ink.)

Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale-
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !)

With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint,

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !)

Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John !

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle down,
Prompting the race grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk.

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star-
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove -
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.

THEY'RE stepping off, the friends I knew,
They're going one by one;

They're taking wives, to tame their lives

Their jovial days are done:

I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree ;

They've all grown grave, domestic men;
They look askance at me.

I hate to see them sober'd down

The merry boys and true;

I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew.

HOOD.

I care not for their married cheer,
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round
In formidable groups.

And though their wife perchance may have

A comely sort of face,

And at the table's upper end

Conduct herself with grace;

I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state;

I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.