I would not, for the world, cast anchor "Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures My brother, (this is quite between us), "And there's an author, full of knowledge; And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon, The faded front of Lily Hall :- We'll make a round, my dear, and call.” Alas! disturb not, maid and matron, I never was on Almack's list; WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. BRIGHTON. OW fruitful autumn lifts his sunburnt head, The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten, The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed, And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton. The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green, To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite, Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne, Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. Phoebus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade, While poor papa in town a patient drone is. Loose trousers snatch the wreath from pantaloons; Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in; But now, (so will the Prince's light dragoons,) White jean have triumph'd o'er their Indian brethren. Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns, Intent alike to please the London glutton; This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns, That, for our dinner, Southdown lamb and mutton. Yet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns, Alas! how short the span of human pride! Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside, Ye circulating novelists, adieu! Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten; Billiards begone! avaunt, illegal loo! Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton. Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn, WINTER IN BRIGHTON. ZILL there be snowfall on lofty Soracte, torrid? Whoso detests the east wind, as a fact he But there are zephyrs more mild by the ocean, Winter in Brighton! Politics nobody cares about. Spurn a Fawcett and White in the Westminster Hades Good is the turtle for luncheon at Mutton's, Bacon's, Mainwaring's fruit in the bosoms of gluttons If you've a thousand a year, or a minute- If you approve of flirtations, good dinners, Seascapes divine, which the merry winds whiten, Nice little saints and still nicer young sinners Winter in Brighton! MORTIMER COLLINS, LONDON-BY-THE-SEA. BRIGHTON in November Is what one should remember, When from town so dull and foggy, we all of us would flee; Where air is pure and bracing, The breezes we are facing, Away the blues there chasing At our London-by-the-Sea. The morning's plunge at Brill's there, It scares away all ills there, How dull, or sad, or sober, you may ever chance to be; The sunshine bright is flashing, At bright London-by-the-Sea. You're sure to find collected From weather as they listen to a symphony in B: 'Neath crystal screen's flirtation, Scarce screened from observation, You'll find with consternation At gay London-by-the-Sea, |