He asked me if I'd walk a measure, (When he came it was nearly midnight)— I said "With a great deal of pleasure," For he danced like a perfect delight. So in waltzing and polking we sported, Till supper sent forth its perfume, And I went down to table, escorted By "the handsomest man in the room Yes, I went down to table, escorted By "the handsomest man in the room." I thought 'twas a nice situation, And in hopes of a pleasant flirtation, As "the handsomest man in the room Thought I-"This is really too stupid! (Of which there are hopes, I presume), We still may contrive to make something Of the handsomest man in the room, Yes, we still may contrive to make something Of the handsomest man in the room. WILLIAM MACQUORN RANKINE. ANTICIPATION. H yes! he is in Parliament; You can't conceive the time he's spent He'll think of nothing, night and day, But place, and the Gazette: No matter what the people say,You won't believe them yet. "He fill'd an album, long ago, He'll care for no such nonsense now: "I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun, "Last week I heard his uncle boast I read it in the 'Morning Post' You'll never see him any more, He cannot eat at half-past four : "In short, he'll soon be false and cold, He'll grow next year extremely old, He'll learn to flatter and forsake, O whisper-or my heart will break— WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. A NICE CORRESPONDENT! HE glow and the glory are plighted I'm alone in my casement, for Pappy I wish you were here! Were I duller The necklace you fasten'd askew ! I want you to come and pass sentence How thrilling, romantic, and true! They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning It was you who first spouted me Browning,- I heard how you shot at The Beeches, There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Alas for the world, and its dearly Your whim is for frolic and fashion, For relics-we all have a few! Love, some day they'll print it, because it FREDERICK LOCKER. EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER. AMENT, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside him place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peer's relations; And, rather than not sport a Lord, Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook, Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than sav'd in vulgar company. THOMAS MOORE. |