If you bring a good lorgnette,
You may see my dainty pet;
Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,
'Mid the clouds.

My enchanting little star,
How I wonder what you are,
With your rosy laughing lips
Full of fun.

Have you many satellites,

Do you shine so bright o' nights, That there's nothing can eclipse "Number One?"

Are

you constant in your loves? Do you change them with your gloves? Pray does Worth pervade your train-Or your heart?

Are you fickle, are you leal,

I sincerely envy him

Who the fortune had to limn
Your bewitching hazel eyes
With his brush :

Who could study ev'ry grace
your winsome little face,

In

And the subtle charm that lies
In your blush.

I am sure it is a shame

That your pretty face and frame,
Ruthless hangers out of view
Seek to hide:

But no doubt Sir Francis G-
And his myrmidons agree,
Peerless angels such as you
Should be "skyed!"

Ah! were I but twenty-two,
I would hinge the knee to you,
And most humbly kiss your glove
At your throne:

Thrice happy he whose sighs
Draw this sweet Heart Union prize
In the lottery of love
For his own!

If I knew but your papa,
Could I only "ask mamma,"
It is clear enough to me
As the sun,

That all through this weary life,
'Mid its pleasures, pain, and strife,
my care and love should be
"Number One."

All

J. ASHBY STERRY.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)

HIS relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine,
When she died?

By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,
As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree,

Her maiden reverie

Has a charm ;

Her ringlets are in taste;

What an arm!-what a waist
For an arm!

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,-

Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love;
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb ?

Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem

To say,

"Come!"

What funny fancy slips

From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,

Sweet sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?

That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first

Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.

Her locks, as white as snow,
Once shamed the swarthy crow:
By-and-by

For my conversazione you must send me something new,

Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the éclat of a

début!

I am sick of all the "minstrels," all the "brothers" this and that,

Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat ;

And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé, I

suppose,

So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his

nose.

Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a

rout,

I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out!

Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,

But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.

The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a

straw

For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw !

And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon,

Unless

you send me some one who has travell'd to the moon.