I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;

I weighed last winter sixteen stone-
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh,
I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie;

I cannot kneel as once I did,

I've quite forgot my bow,

I never do as I am bid

I'm not a lover now.

I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant

Take smiles for wrinkles, black for gray,

And nieces for their aunt ;

I fly from folly, though it flows

From lips of loveliest glow;

I don't object to length of nose-
I'm not a lover now!

The Muse's steed is very fleet

I'd rather ride my mare;

The poet hunts a quaint conceit

I'd rather hunt a hare ;

I've learned to utter yours and

Instead of thine and thou;

you,

And, oh! I can't endure a blue!

I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison, or of ropes ;

I cannot dine on airy schemes,
I cannot sup on hopes!

New milk I own is very fine,

Just foaming from the cow;

But yet, I want my pint of wine

I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,

I'm deafer than the deep;

When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep;

When Mary draws her white gloves out,

I never dance, I vow

Too hot to kick one's heels about!

I'm not a lover now!

I'm busy with the State affairs,
I prate of Pitt and Fox!

I ask the price of railroad shares,
I watch the turn of stocks.

And this is life-no verdure blooms

Upon the withered bough;

I save a fortune in perfumes-
I'm not a lover now!

I may be yet what others are,
A boudoir's babbling fool;

The flattered star of bench and bar,

A party's chief or tool.

Come shower or sunshine-hope or fear,

The palace or the plough,

My heart and lute are broken here

I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow,

My day is night, my bloom is blight,

I'm not a lover now!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS.

TWELVE years ago I made a mock
Of filthy trades and traffics:

I wondered what they meant by stock;
I wrote delightful sapphics :

I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supp'd with fates and furies;
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy, at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!-how many a thought
Of faded paints and pleasures

Those whispered syllables have brought
From memory's hoarded treasures!

The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books,
The glories and disgraces,

The voices of dear friends, the looks

Of old familiar faces.

Where are my friends?—I am alone,

No playmate shares my beaker

Some lie beneath the church-yard stone,

And some before the Speaker ;

And some compose a tragedy,

And some compose a rondo; And some draw sword for liberty,

And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes,
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medler loath'd false quantities,
As much as false professions;

Now Mill keeps order in the land,

A magistrate pedantic ;

And Medler's feet repose unscann'd,

Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,

Does Dr. Martext's duty;

And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,

Is married to a beauty;

And Darrel studies, week by week,

His Mant and not his Manton;

And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,