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There was a crop of wheat, which grew

Where plough was never brought;
There was a noble Lord, who knew

What he was never taught:
A scheme appeared in the Gazette

For a lottery with no blanks;
And a Parliament had lately met,

Without a single Bankes.

And there were kings who never went

To cuffs for half-a-crown;
And lawyers who were eloquent

Without a wig and gown;
And sportsmen who forbore to praise

Their greyhounds and their guns;
Aud poets who deserved the bays,

And did not dread the duns.

And boroughs were bought without a test,

And no man feared the Pope ;
And the Irish cabins were all possess'd

Of liberty and soap;
And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,

Had just resigned the seals;
And a clever little Catholic

Was hearing Scotch appeals.

I went one day to a Court of Law

Where a fee had been refused; And a Public School I really saw

Where the rod was never used;

And the sugar s:ill was very sweet,

Though all the slaves were free; And all the folk in Downing street

Had learned the rule of three.

There love had never a fear or doubt;

December breathed like June:
The Prima Donna ne'er was out

Of temper—or of tune;
The streets were paved with mutton pies,

Potatoes ate like pine ;
Nothing looked black but woman's eyes ;

Nothing grew old but wine.
It was an idle dream; but thou,

The worshipped one, wert there, With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,

White neck and floating hair ; And oh, I had an honest heart,

And a house of Portland stone; And thou wert dear, as still thou art,

And more than dear, my own!

Ob, bitterness !—the morning broke

Alike for boor and bard;
And thou wert married when I woke,

And all the rest was marred:
And toil and trouble, noise and steam,

Came back with the coming ray;
And, if I thought the dead could dream,

I'd hang myself to-day! (1827.)


- "Go together, You precious winners all.”— Winter's Tale.

Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,

You and your mate together, I meant to hail you lovingly,

And wish you pleasant weather.
I took my fiddle from the shelf;

But vain was all my labor ;
For still I thought about myself,

And not about my neighbor.

Safe from the perils of the war,

Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missingSince many things in common are

Between campaigns and kissingUngrazed by glance, unbound by ring,

Love's carte and tierce I've parried, While half my friends are marrying,

And half-good lack !-are married.

'Tis strange—but I have passed alive

Where darts and deaths were plenty, Until I find my twenty-five

As lonely as my twenty :

And many lips have sadly sighed

Which were not made for sighing, And many hearts have darkly diedWhich never dreamed of dying.

Some victims fluttered like a fly,

Some languished like a lily ; Some told their tale in poetry,

And some in Piccadilly: Some yielded to a Spanish hat,

Some to a Turkish sandal; Hosts suffered from an entrechat,

And one or two from Handel.

Good Sterling said no dame should come

To be the queen of his bourn, But one who only prized her home,

Her spinning-wheel, and Gisborne : And Mrs. Sterling says odd things

With most sublime effront’ry ; Gives lectures on elliptic springs,

And follows hounds 'cross country.

Sir Roger had a Britonss pride

In freedom, plough, and furrow ;No fortune hath Sir Roger's bride,

Except a rotten borough : Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,

Contentment and a cottage ;His Laura brings a pair of plums

To boil the poor man's p'tiage.

My rural coz, who loves his peace,

And swore at scientifics,
Is flirting with a lecturer's niece,

Who construes hieroglyphics :
And Foppery's fool, who hated Blues

Whose than he hated Holborn,
Is raving of a pensive Muse,

Who does the verse for Colburn.

And Vyvyan, Humor's crazy child,

Worse worship, whim, or passion, Was still for something strange and wild,

Wit, wickedness, or fashion,Is happy with a little Love,

A parson's pretty daughter, As tender as a turtle-dove,

As dull as milk and water.

And Gerard hath his Northern Fay

His nymph of mirth and haggis; And Courtenay wins a damsel gay

Who figures at Colnaghi's; And Davenant now has drawn a prize,–

I hope and trust, a Venus, Because there are some sympathies

As well as leagues_between us.

Thus north and south, and cast and west,

The chimes of Hymen dingle; But I shall wander on, unblest,

And singularly single ;

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