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In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields,
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ;
Or go crawling from window to window, to see
A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree.
In London, if folks ill together are put,
A bore may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut ;
We change without end ; and if lazy or ill,
All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will.
In the country you're naild, like a pale in the park,
To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ;
And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down,
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town.
In London how easy we visit and meet,
Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat:
Our morning's a round of good-humour'd delight,
And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.

In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make
Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake;
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,
And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog.

In London the spirits are cheerful and light,
All places are gay and all faces are bright;
We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim,
Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim.

But how gay in the country! what summer delight
To be waiting for winter from morning to night!
Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee
To relish the sweet rural subjects we see.
In town we've no use for the skies overhead,
For when the sun rises then we go to bed ;
And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon,
She shines out of season, like satin in June.

In the country these planets delightfully glare
Just to show us the object we want isn't there;
O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise,
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes !

But 'tis in the country alone we can find
That happy resource, that relief of the mind,
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make,
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:
Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ;
But what is all that to the transport we feel
When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?
I have heard tho', that love in a cottage is sweet,
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet :
That's to come for as yet I, alas! am a swain
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.
Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees,
And chatter their transports in groves, if they please :
But a house is much more to my taste than a tree,
And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me.
In the country, if Cupid should find a man out,
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ;
But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure,
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.
I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy,
That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ;
But in London these devils so quick fly about,
That a new devil still drives an old devil out.

In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall !

Captain Charles Morris

CCCXXII.

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.

For many a winter in Billiter-lane,
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain ;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel,
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window'd box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,-
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme,
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen,
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queer :
These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel ;
'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop ;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the Cliff :
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon';
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, - “Oh, Billiter-lane !"
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine,
His Majesty never invites me to dine ;
The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here.

R

If that be the case, why then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane.
Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown,
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

James Smith.

CCCXXIII.

LINES LEFT AT MR. THEODORE HOOK'S

HOUSE IN JUNE, 1834.
As Dick and I

Were a-sailing by
At Fulham bridge, I cock'd my eye,
And says I,

Add-zooks!
There's Theodore Hook's,
Whose Sayings and Doings make such pretty books.

“I wonder,” says I,

Still keeping my eye
On the house, “ if he's in—I should like to try;"

With his oar on his knee,

Says Dick, says he,
“Father, suppose you land and see !"

" What land and sea,

Says I to he,
“Together! why Dick, why how can that be?”

And my comical son,

Who is fond of fun,
I thought would have split his sides at the pun.

So we rows to shore,

And knocks at the door-
When William, a man I've seen often before,

Makes answer and says,

Master's gone in a chaise
Call'd a homnibus, drawn by a couple of bays.”

So I says then,

* Just lend me a pen :
“ I will, sir,” says William, politest of men ;

So having no card, these poetical brayings,
Are the record I leave of my doings and sayings.

Richard H, Barham.

CCCXXIV.

JENNY KISS'D ME.

JENNY kiss'd me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief ! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ;

Say that health and wealth have miss'd me; Say I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kiss'd me!

Leigh Hunt.

CCCXXV.

THE HONEYMOON.

SERENE and tranquil was the night,

The night that closed the summer day, And brilliant was the moon and bright

And soft and tender was her ray. How like our loves, the husband cried,

As on his arm Louisa hung ; Louisa was but just a bride,

And both were fond and both were young. This moon how like our love, my dear,

He said, and clasp'd her round the waist, 'Tis pure and perfect and sincere,

Tender and true and warm and chaste.
Time flew—the youthful pair again

Enjoyed at eve the stilly vale,
The moon still shone, but in her wane,

Her form less round, her face more pale.
This too is like our love---my queen,

For tho' less radiant and less bright, Yet still o'er all this sylvan scene

She sheds a mild and pleasing light.

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