Though my Ball was the best of all possible Balls,
Though I graced my Saloon like a Queen,
I've a headache to-day, so if any one calls,
"Not at home!"I am not to be seen.

Not at home! not at home! bring strong coffee at two,

But now leave me to doze in the dark ;— I'm too pale for my pink, I'm too brown for my blue,

I'm too sick for my drive in the Park.

If the man whose attentions are pointed should call (Eliza, you know who I mean),

Oh! say, when he knocks, I'm knock'd up by my ball,

"Not at home!"-I am not to be seen.

Not at home to Sir John, not at home to the Count,

Not at home till my ringlets are curl'd; Should the jeweller call, with his little account, Not at home! not at home for the world!

I at midnight must shine at three splendid at homes,

Then adieu to my morning chagrin ;

Close my curtains again, for till candlelight comes, "Not at home! -I am not to be seen.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

"MY HUSBAND MEANS EXTREMELY

M

WELL."

Y husband means extremely well,—
Good, honest, humdrum man;
And really I can hardly tell
How first our feuds began.

Mama's,―

It was a match of my
No match at all, I mean;
Unless declining fifty has

One feature like fifteen.

I long'd to leave the prosy set,
Papa and durance vile;
I long'd to have a landaulet,
And four neat Greys in style:
Sir William's steeds were thoroughbred;
He wooed me fourteen days,

And I consented, though his head

Was

greyer than his

greys.

For, oh! I pin'd for Pineries,
Plate, pin-money, and pearls ;
For smiles from Royal Highnesses,
Dukes, Marquises, and Earls:
Sir William was in Parliament,
And notic'd by the King;
So when he made his settlement,
It was a settled thing.

He grumbles now! A woman's whim
Turns night to day, he says,
As if he thought I'd sit with bim
Benighting all my days!

At six be rises; as for me,
At twelve I ring my bell;
Thus we're wound up alternately,
Like buckets in a well.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

NO LONGER JEALOUS.

REMEMBER the time ere his temples

were grey,

And I frown'd at the things he'd the boldness to say;

But now he's grown old, he may say what he

will,

I laugh at his nonsense and take nothing ill.

Indeed I must say he's a little improved,
For he watches no longer the "slily beloved,"
No longer at once he awakens my fears,
Not a glance he perceives, not a whisper he hears.

If he heard one of late, it has never transpired,
For his only delight is to see me admired;
And now pray what better return can I make,
Than to flirt and be always admired-for his sake?
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

MAMMA.

A BASSINETTE BALLAD.

T'S tea-time, nurse; I'll take your place-
Don't hurry. Bless your little face,
You miracle of pink and lace,
So sweetly sleeping!

Is this my second wedding-day,
And only twenty-five last May?
How youth and beauty slip away,
And years come creeping!

Where are the moths that buzzed about, To singe their wings, when I came out— Brief butterflies of ball or rout?

I'm quite deserted.

That foolish Archie over-sea,
I wonder does be think of me-
Our tiff beneath the apple-tree,
Or how we flirted?

When only lazy plash of oars
Broke summer's sleep on Henley shores,
Or when October's idler scores
Delicious cool days!

For as I sat last night at Caste,
A foolish fancy o'er me past-
A memory of who took me last
old school days!

In my

But still he liked or loved in vain,
Swore he could never trust again,
But found a solace for his pain
Across the water.

At least the Times had this to show—
I cut it out three weeks ago—
"The wife of Captain Bungalow,
Madras, a daughter."

Then Ferdinand, a clever bear
(Now A.R.A.), who wore his hair
Like Irving, when he "saws the air
In Hamlet's buskin.

A pallid youth, who lived apart,
A sombre sacrifice to Art,-

I think he only had a heart

For me and Ruskin.

One more, my poor first love, appears,
His memory weaves across the years
A silver haze of smiles and tears-
A Harrow Crichton.

Bookworm and bat, what runs he made!
But how he blushed when he betrayed
His passion on King's Road Parade,
Like Toots, at Brighton!

A poet, too, not over-wise;

But still I somehow seem to prize

Those verses on my "sweet grey eyes
And "languid lashes."

Well, we were young-it might have been;
But boys are fickle at eighteen-
Dear Bertie, cold at Kensal Green:
Peace to his ashes!

No, Jane, I'll wear the blue to-night;
I hope you've put that border right-
What! you're awake, you tiny mite!
Come to mamma, dear.

Hark, there's a step outside! I've missed
His name entirely from the list—

Are we both ready to be kissed?
It's your papa, dear!

H. B. FREEMAN.

"THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER."

HIS is my eldest daughter, Sir,-her mother's only care.

You praise her face-Oh, Sir, she is as good as she is fair.