“Oh ! please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie !"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
"Of course you 've had eleven;"
The maiden answer'd, with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven !"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I,
"You'll never go to heaven."
But all in vain; each time I try,

That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven."

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow WORDSWORTH's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song,

"Lines after ACHE-INSIDE.”

SEE-SAW.

ICKNESS and Health have been playing a game with me,

Tossing me up, like a ball, to and fro. Pleasure and Pain did exactly the same

with me,

Treating me merely like something to

throw.

Joy took me up to the clouds for a holiday
In a balloon that she happens to keep;
Then, as a damp upon rather a jolly day,

Grief in a diving-bell bore me down deep.

Poverty courted me early-worse luck to her!—
(Wealth would have made me a much better wife ;)
Fool that I am, I was faithful and stuck to her;
She'll cling to me for the rest of my life.

As for our children, we'd better have drown'd them all ;

They, I believe, are the worst of our ills.

Is it a wonder I often confound them all,

Seeing that most of them chance to be Bills?

Hope, who was once an occasional visitor,
Never drops in on us now for a chat.
Memory calls, though, relentless inquisitor-
(Not that I feel very grateful for that.)
Hope was a liar-it's no use denying it-
Memory's talk is undoubtedly true:

Still, I confess that I like, after trying it,

Hope's conversation the best of the two.

A WILD HUNT.

Can any one confidently say to himself that he has conversed with the identica individual, stupidest man now extant in London?"-T. CARLYLE.

I

STARTED up and slammed the book;

I seized my hat and cane;

I sought the bell and summoned cook

With all my might and main.`

My cook, she is a sober lass

Respectable, but slow:

She wonder'd what had come to pass

To set me ringing so.

Said I, "My skiff is on the shore,

My bark is on the sea;

And many suns may set before

I can return to thee.

Expect me back on Friday week;

I'm not at home till then.

Adieu, adieu; I go to seek

The Stupidest of Men!"

I travers'd London in my search,

Careering to and fro,

From Barnsbury to Brixton Church,

From Notting Hill to Bow.

"There's no such word as fail," said I :

"I'll seek my treasure still

From Brixton Church to Barnsbury,
From Bow to Notting Hill! !"

He went not by the penny-boat,

The omnibus, or train;

One hour on shore-the next afloat

I hunted him in vain..

And ever, as the days wore on

In travels east and west,

I marvell'd where he could have gone, My own, my Stupidest.

I met, of course, with many men
Whose brains were very small;

I found a party, now and then,

With nearly none at all.