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Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone, for a judge, to Bengal;
This season, at Fustian Hall.
Come, Clarence ;—your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel; We all think there never was seen a
Performer, so like the O'Neill.
Has deeply affected us all ;
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall.
Dread objects are scattered before her,
On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er hei
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
That hangs on a peg to the wall,
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.
She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,
Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
There's the Prompter's detestable call : Come, Clarence,—our Romeo and Ranger,
We want you at Fustian Hall. (1831.)
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.
A DROPPED LETTER FROM A LADY.
Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,
Was entered at Eton last May; But really, I'm all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
A mother to you may confess,
The terrible Windsor Express.
You know I was half broken-hearted
When the poor fellow whispered “Good-by!” As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Deriding—the bear!--my distress;
To the tales of the Windsor Express ?
The planter in sultry Barbadoes
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt; In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors,
Who dine at a man-of-war's mess; But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,--in the Windsor Express.
I fancied the Doctor at College
Had dipped, now and then, into books; But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman's or cook's: He's a dunce-I have heard it with sorrow;
'Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess, To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.
All preachers of course should be preaching
That virtue's a very good thing;
To fear God, and honor the King;
For folly, for vice, for excess; They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else—in the Windsor Express.
Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,
Believes that she nursed him in vain; Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says " He'll ne'er come to mount her again !" My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress, “Oh where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express !"
Ring, darling, and order the carriage;
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,--
I'll take him directly away.
The end it is easy to guess ;-
My boy-in the Windsor Express !
(Oot. 27, 1832.)
“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem proecepit.”
THERE was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The cruel fates allow;
The chill is on my brow;
I'm not a lover now!
I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys;
And very fond of noise