More oranges with his one fevered mouth Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south? Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice,

Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet.

Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points
Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints,
During their trial ?

"Tis past denial.

And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock? And does not Planché, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards, Seem goaded by sharp swords,

And called upon himself to "walk the plank"?
As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot,
What have they more

Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot,
Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!

Thus pending does not Mathews, at sad shift
For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny ?-
Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?
And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?
Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note
Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple

About his arms, and Adam's apple
Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat?
Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire
Or not to take a jump into the fire ?

Did Wade feel as composed as music can ? And was not. Bernard his own Nervous Man ? Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf,

Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater,
And ere its changes ring transform himself?
A frightful mug of human delf!

A spirit-bottle-empty of "the cratur"?
A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?
A thunderstruck dumb-waiter ?

To clench the fact,

Myself, once guilty of one small rash act,
Committed at the Surrey,

Quite in a hurry,

Felt all this flurry,
Corporal worry,
And spiritual scurry,
Dram-devil — attic curry!
All going well,

From prompter's bell,
Until befell

A hissing at some dull imperfect dance –

There's no denying

I felt in all four elements at once!

My head was swimming, while my arms were flying!
My legs for running—all the rest was frying!

Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use,
Thy pens so innocent of goose!

For this shall dramatists, when they make merry,
Discarding port and sherry,

Perry!"

Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose

To distant lands,

Perry, admitted on all hands,

Text, running, German, Roman,

For Patent Perryans approached by no man!
And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!

Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower,
Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!
And Penury itself shall club its penny
To raise thy monument in lofty place,
Higher than York's or any son of War;
Whilst time all meaner effigies shall bury,
On due pentagonal base

Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry,
Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!

NUMBER ONE.

VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.

It's very hard! -and so it is, to live in such a row,
And witness this that every miss but me has got a beau.
For Love goes calling up and down, but here he seems
to shun;

I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number
One!

I'm sick of all the double knocks that come to Number

Four!

That Number Three I often see a lover at the door; And one in blue, at Number Two, calls daily like a dun, It's very hard they come so near, and not to Number One!

Miss Bell, I hear, has. got a dear exactly to her mind,
By sitting at the window-pane without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony, which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five don't take at Num-
ber One!

"Tis hard, with plenty in the street, and plenty passing

by,

There's nice young men at Number Ten, but only rather

shy;

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 neighbor as him

self.

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:

I'm sure white satin made her look as brown as any bun

But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One!

354 LINES ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE.

At Number Six they say Miss Rose has slain a score of hearts,

And Cupid, for her sake, has been quite prodigal of darts. The imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a

gun!

But if he had, he'd never deign to shoot with Number One.

It's very hard, and so it is, to live in such a row!

And here's a ballad-singer come to aggravate my woe ;
O, take away your foolish song and tones enough to

stun

There is "Nae luck about the house," I know, at Number One!

LINES ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE.

BY DORCAS DOVE.

AND is it thus ye welcome Peace,

From mouths of forty-pounding Bores ?

O, cease, exploding Cannons, cease!
Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores!

Not so the quiet Queen should come;
But like a Nurse to still our Fears,
With shoes of List, demurely dumb,
And Wool or Cotton in her Ears!

She asks for no triumphal Arch;

No Steeples for their ropy Tongues;
Down, Drumsticks, down! She needs no March,
Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs.

She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats
To tell that She is drawing nigh :