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;

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-inorrow

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!

(Oct. 27, 1832.)

PALINODIA.

"Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit."

Horace.

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!

VOL. II.-14

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-

I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;

I weighed last winter sixteen stone--
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh,

I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie;

I cannot kneel as once I did,

I've quite forgot my bow,

I never do as I am bid

I'm not a lover now.

I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant

Take smiles for wrinkles, black for gray,

And nieces for their aunt;

I fly from folly, though it flows

From lips of loveliest glow;

I don't object to length of nose

I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,

Tom Moore for Mr. Mill.

And belles may read, and beaux may write-
I care not who or how;

I burnt my album, Sunday night;
I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison, or of ropes;
I cannot dine on airy schemes,
I cannot sup on hopes!
New milk, I own, is very fine,

Just foaming from the cow;
But yet, I want my pint of wine--
I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,
I'm deafer than the deep;

When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep;

When Mary draws her white gloves out,
I never dance, I vow-

Too hot to kick one's heels about!—

I'm not a lover now!