TALES OUT OF SCHOOL

A DROPT 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;

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.

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; · "T would 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 honour 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!

If I eat well and sleep well. - THE MAD LOVER.

IF I could scare the light away,

No sun should ever shine;

If I could bid the clouds obey,
Thick darkness should be mine:

Where'er my weary footsteps roam,
I hate whate'er I see;

And Fancy builds a fairer home

In slumber's hour for me.

I had a vision yesternight

Of a lovelier land than this,

Where heaven was clothed in warmth and

light,

Where earth was full of bliss;

And every tree was rich with fruits,
And every field with flowers,
And every zephyr wakened lutes

In passion-haunted bowers.

I clambered up a lofty rock,

And did not find it steep;

I read through a page and a half of Locke, And did not fall asleep;

I said whate'er I may but feel,

I paid whate'er I owe;

And I danced one day an Irish reel,
With the gout in every toe.

And I was more than six feet high,
And fortunate, and wise;
And I had a voice of melody

And beautiful black eyes;

My horses like the lightning went,
My barrels carried true,

And I held my tongue at an argument,

And winning cards at Loo.

I saw an old Italian priest

Who spoke without disguise;

I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,

All libels should be lies: