And when my worship was most warm, She " never found it colder." I don't object to wealth or land: Of an extremely pretty hand, Some thousands, and a living. She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools, And sits a horse divinely, But to be linked for life to her! The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer, And hang himself beside it! LETTER FROM MISS AMELIA JANE MORTIMER, LONDON, TO SIR HENRY CLIFFORD, PARIS. DEAR Harry you owe me a letter— But I make you still farther my debtor- The shock was so great when we parted, I have scarcely been out to a party, But I had such a pain in my forehead, I must have looked perfectly horrid- As he whispered his friend, and, said he, "The best and most beautiful danter Is the lady in white"-meaning me! I've been once to Lord Dorival's soirees, Do they still wear the silk they call moirees? But the melody died on my tongue; And I thought I should never get through it, It was one we so often have sung. In your last you desire me to mention The news of the court and the town; But there's nothing new worth your attention, Or deserving of my noting down. They say things are bad in the city, And pa thinks they'll only get worse; And they say new bonnets are pretty, But I think them quite the reverse. Lady Black has brought out her three daughters, Mrs. White's gone to Bath for the waters, It's all off 'twixt Miss Brown and Sir Stephen, He found they could never agree; Her temper's so very uneven, I always said how it would be. The Miss Whites are grown very fine creatures, Though they look rather large in a room; Miss Grey is gone off in her features, Miss Green has off with her groom! gone Lord Littleford's dead, and that noodle His son has succeeded his sire; And her ladyship's lost the fine poodle, Little Joe is advancing in knowledge, And Charles goes on Monday to college, I don't like my last new piano, I think I must give it to Anna, I suppose you can talk like an artist, Pa will never consent if you do! "You were born," he will say, "Sir, a Briton," But forgive me so foolish a fear; If I thought you could blame what I've written, I would soon wash it out with a tear! |