THE BREAKFAST PARTY.

CATO'S SOLILOQUY.

On a proposal to subject all dogs that draw carriages to a payment of 'Double Duty.'

CATO, who strains his nerves beneath the truck
Of Smith & Co.

Down Piccadilly, lectured thus on luck

An hour ago

His bark I know.

'Sad days for dogs, these dog-days! sad for those, The few who lead

Like me a stoic's life, despising woes,

Howe'er, indeed,

One's heart may bleed.

'Sad days, and sadder are in store, no doubt, To dim our lot;

The Comet sure is floundering about,

It's tail has got

Into a knot!

'Entangled with the dog-star, and may be

Our fate to ban !

Or have those bipeds passed their new decree !
One never can

Put faith in man.

'A stoic's soul can scarce the blow defy;
It makes one wish,

Like Man himself, "to be a butterfly,"
Or that gold fish

In yonder dish.

Was there not tyranny enough before,
And contrasts drawn

"Twixt fat sleek puppies, bull-dogs brave and poor, "Twixt rags and lawn,

Bare bones and brawn?

'Happy the dogs who form a breakfast group
Around the feet

Of some fair girl, dispensing milk or soup,
Or scraps of meat,

With smiles more sweet!

'How many now are basking in such smiles,
Who, breakfast o'er,

May gambol in the fields, and leap the stiles,
And then at four

Return for more.

'But I must I, for lack of gloss or beauty,
Be quite undone,

In being sentenced thus to "double duty?
Is not a ton

Enough for one?

'I had escaped this heaviest of dooms, Were I, sad wight,

دو

Used, not in drawing trucks, but drawing-rooms;
Or prone to bite,
And fond of fight!

'Or were I bred among the sporting race,
To make a stir

In pits, or in preserves, or in the chase,
And live a cur

Of character!

'Alas! my lot is merely usefulness;
I toil along,

Too plain to love, too rugged to caress ;
I do no wrong,

But, ah, I'm strong!

'My duty doubled! Well, I'd toil six days, And, bless the mark !

Drag on the seventh, in a little chaise,

Five Smiths, till dark,

All round the Park!'

ACUTE DEDUCTION.

'HE takes his hat, and why I would be knowing.' 'Learn,' cries that subtle devil, Paul,—' he's going!'

PHILOSOPHY OF GAMES.

LIFE,' said Tabby, taking snuff,
'Life's a game at Blindman's Buff.'

'True,' said Tabby, 'very true;
Death's a game of Forfeits too.'

A POETICAL COLUMN.

IN HONOUR OF MR. SIMPSON, M.C.

'We are sorry to learn that our old friend Simpson, the Master of the Ceremonies at Vauxhall Gardens for so many years, whose eccentricities have caused so much merriment to the public, and whose harmless habits and character have acquired for him, through a long life, the esteem of many, and, we believe, the dislike of none, died on Christmas Day. We have so often noticed his peculiarities in light paragraphs that we feel it but justice, in taking leave of him for ever, to add that his peculiarities were only such as good-nature and urbanity carried to an extreme might commit; and that, though they might have exposed him, as they often did expose him, to laughter, they did not, and could not, produce any worse feeling with respect to him than those which arose from a mixture of hilarity and kindness. But the joke has passed away, and the last impression made by poor Simpson is one of regret.'—Morning Herald.

AND he is gone! Then grieve Vauxhall !
For o'er thy brightness, like a pall,

The clouds of black misfortune fall;

Weep, oh ye singers,

Weep, waiters, lamplighters, and all—

And call bell-ringers.

T