Mourn, ye musicians, grave and gay;
Be mute, or but a requiem play;
Ye vaulters, in your postures stay-
Ye firework-makers,

Put out the light; let no one pay,
Ye money-takers !

And oh lament, good Mr. Gye ;
And you, good Co., in union cry!
You hear the wintry breezes sigh

Through each bare tree

Thus mourn the 'Royal property'
Its lost M.C.

Your brightest lamp's gone out to-night,
Your proudest rocket will not light,

Your comic singer takes his flight,
Your fowls are tough,

Your hock is hot, your port is white,
Your rack sad stuff.

Your horns are cracked, your fiddles squeak,
Your dancer had a sprain last week,
Your gallery-floor begins to creak,

Your tight-rope loosens ;

Your fête's proclaimed in each critique
A bore, a nuisance.

Your gayest path is chill and drear,
Your covered walks are wet, I fear ;

Ev'n summer's self is winter here-
The leaves are dead,
And every dewdrop seems a tear,
By Pity shed.

So he is mourned, the X-M.C.
Politeness! Ah, it ceased to be
With him, who was Urbanity

In air, voice, feature!

The prince of pure Politeness he,
That simple creature.

Poor Simpson! though the fêtes were flat,
Or people rude, he smiled at that;
And still he only touched his hat

Through all the crowd;

He understood not 'tit for tat'—

To boors he bowed!

Filled with good-nature to the brinı,
His hand upon his beaver's rim,
In every look, in every limb,

Sweet approbation,

Folks thought a reprimand from him
An obligation.

If vulgar brawlers in the throng

Annoyed the guests or spoiled the song, His hint that they indeed were wrong' Was so polite,

They muttered, as they moved along, 'Who would be right?'

Alas! when Death, the common foe,

Knocks at the door of Man & Co.,

Coolly inviting us to go

Though void of use,

How apt we are to answer 'No,'

And make excuse.

But Simpson-not of such was he;

When Death approached the kind M.C., And summoned him, 'midst Christmas glee, To yield his treasure,

He answered-' Eminent Sir, great D.,

I come, with pleasure.'

Now to a Vauxhall grander far,
Where every lamp's a shining star-

The Elysian field, whose gate's ajar—
There sails this minute

Across the Styx a boat, a car—

And Simpson's in it.

He lands-and is elected there
M.C. of all that region fair;

And ghosts illustrious, spectres rare,
Are in a fuss,

The smile, the bow, the glance to share
Which ravished us.

The shadow of a cane bears he,
His ghost-hat touched eternally!
There walks he ever, fresh and free,

Through ceaseless summers;

And welcomes to the Property

King Death's new comers.

THE PROPER USE OF THE EYES.

Certes, the eyes were not to see with,

No more than wives were meant to be with,
Or milk was sent us to drink tea with.
Some sages hint they're meant to weep with,
Others to cast a glance, like sheep, with;
'Tis my belief they're meant to sleep with.

MINERVA AT THE PORTICO OF THE ATHENEUM TO THE DUKE OF YORK AT THE HEAD OF HIS COLUMN.

Lo! Wisdom from the house-top crieth out!
The house-top! No!

From this less lofty perch she sends her shout,
The Portico.

When I from chimneys preached, men deemed, in mirth,
My breath mere smoke,

Now hearken they, though now I'm nearer earth—
Well, owls don't croak.

Oh! royal statue, whose back I view

Still turned in shyness,

Hear you my

voice up there? How justly you

Are styled 'Your Highness':

Deaf! rather deaf! I thought so; never mind;
I'd just as soon

Sing without hearers-I am quite resigned.
Proceed my tune!