Text, running, German, Roman,
For Patent Perryans approached by no man!
And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!
Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower,
Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!
And Penury itself shall club its penny
To raise thy monument in lofty place,
Higher than York's or any son of War;
While time all meaner effigies shall bury,
On due pentagonal base

Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry,
Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!

A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY.

CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

ONCE in a barn theatric, deep in Kent,

A famed tragedian-one of tuneful tongue

Appeared for that night only-'t was Charles Young.

As Rolla he. And as that Innocent,

The Child of hapless Cora, on there went

A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung

A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among

So light she seem'd, and so intelligent !
That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap :

Snatching the creature by her tiny gown,
He plants her on his shoulder,—All, all clap!
While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown,
She lisps in Rolla's ear,-" Look out, old chap,

Or else I'm blow'd if you don't have me down !”

SIDDONS AND HER MAID

W. S. LANDOR.

Siddons. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast;
The herb of China is its crown at last.
Maiden hast thou a thimble in thy gear?

Maid. Yes, missus, yes.

Siddons. Then, maiden, place it here,

With penetrated, penetrating eyes.
Maid. Mine? missus! are they?

Siddons. Child! thou art unwise,

Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.

Maid. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!

Siddons. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led

Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?

Maid. He never told me: I can't say, not I,

Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.

Siddons. Fond maiden!

Maid. No, upon my conscience, madam!

If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.

Siddons. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 't is in vain That Shakspeare's language germinates again.

THE SECRET SORROW.

PUNCH.

Оn! let me from the festive board

To thee, my mother, flee;

And be my secret sorrow shared

By thee-by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;

Let others seek enjoyment there,

To me 'tis only pain.

There was a word of kind advice—

A whisper soft and low,

But oh! that one resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear,

Do I impute to you,

But since I ate that currant tart

I don't know what to do!

I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e'er could be;

I wonder how she ever could

Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cluster round and shake my hand---
They tell me I am blest:

My case they do not understand-
I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair—
They drive me mad and madder.
What do they mean by it? I swear,
I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall;
What would they say to see the box
In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers, it is true,

'Twere difficult to match:

What would they say if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?

TEMPERANCE SONG.

AIR-Friend of my soul.

FRIEND of my soul, this water sip,
Its strength you need not fear;
Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,
Nor half so strong as beer.
Like Jenkins when he writes,
It can not touch the mind;
Unlike what he indites,

No nausea leaves behind,

PUNCH

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** *****

ON THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER,

WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.

PUNCH.

I HAVE Watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,
As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;
And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,
And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!
Thou know'st all its secrets-each joy and each grief;

And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart
To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,

As thy days are declining I love thee the more,

For I feel that thy loss I can never replace

That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,
I can not-I will not-forget what thou wert!
While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,
In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST SHIRT.
Grub-street.

MADNESS.

THERE is a madness of the heart, not head-
That in some bosoms wages endless war;
There is a throe when other pangs are dead,

That shakes the system to its utmost core.

PUNCH.