Bay colts and brown colts, sires and dams,
Bribings and bullyings, bets and bams;
And how the favorite should have won,
And how the little Earl was done;
And how the filly failed in strength,
And how some faces grew in length;
And how some people,-if they'd show,
Know something more than others know.
Such is his talk; and while we wonder
At that interminable thunder,
The undiscriminating snarler
Astounds the ladies in the parlour,
And broaches, at his mother's table,
The slang of kennel and of stable.
And when he's drunk, he roars before ye
One excellent, unfailing story

About a gun, Lord knows how long,

With a discharge, Lord knows how strong;
Which always needs an oath and frown
To make the monstrous dose go down.
Oh! oft and oft the Muses pray
That wondrous tube may burst one day,
And then the world will ascertain
Whether its master hath a brain.
Then, on the stone that hides his sleep,
These accents shall be graven deep;
Or, "Upton" and "C. B." between,
Shine in the "Sporting Magazine:"

* Two constant supporters of that instructive miscellany.

"Civil to none, except his brutes,
Polished in naught, except his boots-
Here lie the relics of Joe Tarrell;
Also, Joe Tarrell's double-barrel !"

Ho! by the muttered sounds that slip,
Unwilling, from his curling lip;
By the grey glimmer of his eye,
That shines so unrelentingly;

By the stern sneer upon his snout—
I know the Critic, Andrew Crout!
The Boy-reviler! amply filled
With venomed virulence, and skilled
To look on what is good and fair,
And find, or make, a blemish there.
For Fortune to his cradle sent

Self-satisfying Discontent;

And he hath caught from cold Reviews,

The one great talent, to abuse;
And so he sallies sternly forth,

Like the cold Genius of the North,

To check the heart's exuberant fullness,
And chill good humor into dullness.
Where'er he comes, his fellows shrink
Before his awful nod and wink;
And whensoe'er these features plastic
Assume the savage or sarcastic,
Mirth stands abashed, and Laughter flies,
And Humour faints, and Quibble dies.

How sour he seems!—and, hark! he spoke; We'll stop and listen to the croak;

'Twill charm us if these happy lays

Are honoured by a fool's dispraise !—

"You think the boats well manned this year! To you they may perhaps appear!

I, who have seen those frames of steel,
Tuckfield, and Dixon, and Bulteel,
Can swear, no matter what I swear!
Only things are not as they were!
And then our Cricket !-think of that!
We ha'n't a tolerable Bat;

It's very true that Mr. Tucker,

Who puts the Field in such a pucker,
Contrives to make his fifty Runs ;—
What then?—we had a Hardinge once!
As for our talents, where are they?
Griffin and Grildrig had their day;
And who's the star of modern time?
Octosyllabic Peregrine;

Who pirates, puns, and talks sedition,
Without a moment's intermission!
And if he did not get a lift,

Sometimes, from me and Doctor Swift,
I can't tell what the deuce he'd do!-
But this, you know, is entre nous!
I've tried to talk him into taste,
But found my labour quite misplaced;
He nibs his pen, and twists his ear,
And says he's deaf, and cannot hear;
VOL. II.-6

And if I mention right or rule,-
Egad! he takes me for a fool !"

Gazing upon this varied scene
With a new Artist's absent mien,
I see thee, silent and alone,
My friend, ingenious Hamilton.

I see thee there—(nay, do not blush,)
Knight of the Pallet and the Brush,
Dreaming of straight and crooked lines,
And planning portraits and designs.

I like him hugely !-well I wis
No despicable skill is his,
Whether his sportive canvas shows
Arabia's sands, or Zembla's snows,
A lion, or a bed of lilies,

Fair Caroline, or fierce Achilles;
I love to see him taking down
A school-fellow's unconscious frown,
Describing twist, grimace, contortion,
In most becoming disproportion,
While o'er his merry paper glide
Rivers of wit; and by his side
Caricatura takes her stand,

Inspires the thought, and guides the hand;

I love to see his honoured books

Adorned with rivulets and brooks;

Troy, frowning with her ancient towers,

Or Ida, gay with fruits and flowers;

I love to see fantastic shapes,

Dragons and Griffins, Birds and Apes,
And Pigmy Forms, and Forms Gigantic,
Forms Natural, and Forms Romantic,
Of Dwarfs and Ogres, Dames and Knights,
Scrawled by the side of Homer's fights,
And portraits daubed on Maro's poems,
And profiles pinned to Tully's proems;
In short, I view with partial eyes
Whate'er my brother-painter tries.
To each belongs his own utensil,
I sketch with pen, as he with pencil;
And each, with pencil or with pen,
Hits off a likeness now and then.
He drew me once-the spiteful creature!
'Twas voted "like" in every feature;
It might have been so!—('twas lopsided,
And squinted worse than ever I did.)
However, from that hapless day
I owed the debt, which here I pay ;
And now I'll give my friend a hint :—
"Unless you want to shine in print,
Paint lords and ladies, nymphs and fairies,
And demi-gods, and dromedaries;
But never be an author's creditor,
Nor paint the picture of an editor!"

Who is the youth with stare confounded,
And tender arms so neatly rounded;
And moveless eyes, and glowing face,
And attitude of studied grace?