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Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,

Is gone, for a judge, to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely,

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.
At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy

Has deeply affected us all ;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,

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.
The sword never seems to alarm her,

That hangs on a peg to the wall,
And she dotes on thy rusty old armor,

Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,

Poor Kitty was quite out of breath,
And trampled, in anger and scorning,

A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark,—I've a part in the Stranger,-

There's the Prompter's detestable call : Come, Clarence,—our Romeo and Ranger,

We want you at Fustian Hall. (1831.)



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;
For I feel an alarm which, I'm certain,

A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,

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.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,

Deriding—the bear!--my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted,

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;
All tutors of course should be teaching

To fear God, and honor the King;
But at Eton they've regular classes

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,--
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,-

I'll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating,

The end it is easy to guess ;-
Some day they'll be killing and eating

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,
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,

By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The days are gone! no more! no more,

The cruel fates allow;
And though I'm hardly twenty-four,
I'm not a lover now!
Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight,

I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,

I laugh at girls and boys;
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,

And very fond of noise

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