You've nuts, but not crack ones,
Half empty, and black ones;
With oranges sallow-

They can't be called yellow-
Some pippins well wrinkled,
And plums almond sprinkled,
Some rout cakes, and so on,
Then with business to go on;
Long speeches are stuttered,
And toasts are well buttered,
While dames in the gallery,
All dressed in fallallery,
Look on at the mummery:
And listen to flummery.

Hip, hip! and huzzaing, And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations. Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney"Mr. Benbow, one guinea; Mr. Frederic Manual, One guinea-and annual." Song-Jockey and Jenny"Mr. Markham one guinea.' "Have you all filled your glasses ?" Here's a health to good lasses. The subscription still skinny"Mr. Franklin-one guinea." Franklin looks like a ninny; "Mr. Boreham, one guineaMr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest-one guinea, Mr. Merrington-twenty,"

Rough music, in plenty.
Away toddles Chairman,
The little dark spare man,
Not sorry at ending

With white sticks attending,
And some vain Tomnoddy,
Votes in his own body
To fill the void seat up,
And get on his feet up,
To say, with voice squeaking,
"Unaccustomed to speaking,
Which sends you off seeking
Your hat, number thirty—
No coach-very dirty.
So, hungry and fevered,
Wet-footed, spoilt-beavered,
Eyes aching in socket,
Ten pounds out of pocket,
To Brook-street the Upper,
You haste home to supper.

A DROP OF GIN.

GIN! Gin! a drop of Gin!

What magnified monsters circle therein! Ragged, and stained with filth and mud, Some plague-spotted, and some with blood! Shapes of misery, shame, and sin!

Figures that make us loathe and tremble, Creatures scarce human, that more resemble

Broods of diabolical kin,

Ghoul and vampyre, demon and Gin!

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!

The dram of Satan! the liquor of Sin !—

Distilled from the fell

Alembics of hell,

By Guilt and Death, his own brother and twin!

That man might fall

Still lower than all

The meanest creatures with scale and fin.

But, hold; we are neither Barebones nor Prynne, Who lashed with such rage

The sins of the age;

Then, instead of making too much of a din,

Let Anger be mute,

And sweet Mercy dilute,

With a drop of Pity, the drop of Gin!

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!

When, darkly, Adversity's days set in,
And the friends and peers

Of earlier years

Prove warm without, but cold within,

And cannot retrace

A familiar face

That's steeped in poverty up to the chin ;

But snub, neglect, cold shoulder, and cut
The ragged pauper, misfortune's butt;
Hardly acknowledged by kith and kin,
Because, poor rat!

He has no cravat,

A seedy coat, and a hole in that !—

No sole to his shoe, and no brim to his hat;
Nor a change of linen-except his skin;

No gloves, no vest,

Either second or best;

And, what is worse than all the rest,

No light heart, though his trousers are thinWhile time elopes

With all golden hopes,

And even with those of pewter and tin;

The brightest dreams,

And the best of schemes,

All knocked down, like a wicket by Mynn.
Each castle in air

Seized by giant Despair,

No prospect in life worth a minnikin pin ;
No credit, no cash,

No cold mutton to hash,

No bread-not even potatoes to mash; No coal in the cellar, no wine in the binnSmashed, broken to bits,

With judgments and writs;

Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits, In the webs that the spiders of Chancery spinTill, weary of life, its worry and strife, Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife; Of poison-a rope--" louping over a linn.”

Gin! Gin! a drop of Gin!

Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,

To take, alas!

To the fatal glass;

And happy the wretch that does not win

To change the black hue

Of his ruin to "blue"

While angels sorrow, and demons grin

And lose the rheumatic

Chill of his attic