My book and collar both!

How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?

O, for that small, small beer anew!

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That washed my sweet meals down;
The master even!

That fagged me

and that small Turk

worse is now my work

A fag for all the town!

O, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again ;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
Exactly like Miss Brown!

The omne bene Christmas come!
The prize of merit, won for home-

Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days,

For fame a deal of empty praise,
Without the silver pen!

Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach

The joyous shout

the loud approach

456 FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.

The winding horns like rams'!
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweet-meats almost sweeter still,
No "satis" to the "jams!"

When that I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.

"Aurum pot-a-bile:". -Gold biles the pot. FREE TRANSLATION.

FAREWELL then, my golden repeater,

We're come to my Uncle's old shop;
And hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop.

To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;

But O! there's a riot internal,

And Famine calls out for the Watch!

O! hunger's a terrible trial,

I really must have a relief—

So here goes the plates of your dial
To fetch me some Williams's beef!

As famished as any lost seaman,
I've fasted for many a dawn,

And now must play chess with the Demon,
And give it a check with a pawn.

FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH. 457

I've fasted, since dining at Buncle's,

Two days with true Perceval zeal —
And now must make up at my Uncle's,
By getting a duplicate meal.

No Peachum it is, or young Lockit,
That rifles my fob with a snatch ;
Alas! I must pick my own pocket,
And make gravy-soup of my watch!

So long I have wandered a starver,
I'm getting as keen as a hawk;
Time's long hand must take up a carver,
His short hand lay hold of a fork.

Right heavy and sad the event is,
But O! it is Poverty's crime;
I've been such a Brownrigg's Apprentice,
I thus must be "out of my Time."

Folks talk about dressing for dinner,
But I have for dinner undrest;
Since Christmas, as I am a sinner,
I've eaten a suit of my best.

I haven't a rag or a mummock
To fetch me a chop or a steak ;
I wish that the coats of my stomach
Were such as my Uncle would take!

When dishes were ready with garnish
My watch used to warn with a chime
But now my repeater must furnish
The dinner in lieu of the time!

My craving will have no denials,
I can't fob it off, if you stay,

So go

and the old Seven Dials

Must tell me the time of the day.

Your chimes I shall never more hear 'em,
To part is a Tic Douloureux!
But Tempus has his edax rerum,
And I have my Feeding-Time too!

Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We're come to my Uncle's old shop
And Hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!

Alas! when in Brook Street the upper
In comfort I lived between walls,
I've gone to a dance for my supper;
But now I must go to Three Balls!

THE BROKEN DISH.

WHAT'S life but full of care and doubt,

With all its fine humanities ?

With parasols we walk about,
Long pigtails and such vanities.

We plant pomegranate trees and things,
And go in gardens sporting,
With toys and fans of peacock's wings,
To painted ladies courting.

We gather flowers of every hue,

And fish in boats for fishes,

Build summer-houses painted blue
But life's as frail as dishes.

Walking about their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers,
How little thought them two Chinese,
They'd both be smashed to shivers.

ODE TO PEACE.

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT.

O PEACE! O come with me and dwell

But stop, for there's the bell.

O Peace! for thee I go and sit in churches,
On Wednesday, when there's very few
In loft or pew

Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's.
O Peace! for thee I have avoided marriage
Hush! there's a carriage.

O Peace! thou art the best of earthly goods
The five Miss Woods.

O Peace! thou art the Goddess I adore
There come some more.

O Peace! thou child of solitude and quiet
That's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot.
O Peace!

Knocks will not cease.

O Peace! thou wert for human comfort planned
That's Weippert's band.

O Peace! how glad. I welcome thy approaches -
I hear the sound of coaches.

O Peace! O Peace! - another carriage stops
It's early for the Blenkinsops.