Flutes murmur-chains rattle-robes rustle
In chorus, at Fustian Hall,

By the bye, there are two or three matters
We want you to bring us from town;
The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's,
A nose and a hump for the clown;
We want a few harps for our banquet;
We want a few masks for our ball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet
His white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;
Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;
And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber
For want of a lizard and owl:
And then, for our funeral procession,
Pray get us a love of a pall,—
Or how shall we make an impression
On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us,
If you'll do your endeavours to bring
From the club, a young person to write us
Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone for a Judge to Bengal ;
fear we shall miss him extremely
This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence! your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;
We all think there never was seen a
Performer so like the O'Neill:
At rehearsals her exquisite fancy
Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall!

Dread objects are scatter'd before her
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her
That hangs on a peg to the wall;
And she doats on thy rusty old armour,
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabb'd a bright mirror this morning,-
(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)-
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.

But hark! I've a part in "The Stranger,"
There's the Prompter's detestable call!
Come, Clarence-our Romeo and Ranger-
We want you at Fustian Hall!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

CLUBS.

F any man loves comfort and has little cash to buy it, he

Should get into a crowded club-a most select society,

While solitude and mutton-cutlets serve infelix uxor, he

May have his club, like Hercules, and revel there in luxury.

Yes, clubs knock taverns on the head. E'en . Hatchett's can't demolish 'em.

Joy grieves to see their magnitude, and Long's longs to abolish 'em.

The Inns are out. Hotels for single men scarce keep alive on it,

While none but houses that are in the family way thrive on it.

There's first the Athenæum Club; so wise, there's not a man of it

That has not sense enough for six-in fact, that is the plan of it.

The

very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical,

And always place the knives and forks in order mathematical.

Then opposite the mental club you'll find the regimental one—

A meeting made of men of war, and yet a very gentle one.

If uniform good living please your palate, here's excess of it,

Especially at private dinners, when they make a mess of it.

E'en Isis has a house in town and Cam abandons

ber city;

The Master now hangs out at the United University.

In common room she gave a rout (a novel freak to hit upon),

Where Masters gave the Mistresses of Arts no chairs to sit upon.

The Union Club is quite superb; its best apartment daily is

The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, cum multis aliis.

At half-past six the joint concern for eighteenpence is given you,

Half-pints of port are sent in ketchup-bottles to enliven you.

The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosily,

And dream they climb the highest Alps or rove the plains of Moselai.

The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of it,

And now they are club-footed, and they sit and look at charts of it.

The Orientals, homeward-bound, now seek their club much sallower,

And while they eat green fat they find their own fat growing yellower.

Their soup is made more savoury, till bile to shadows dwindles 'em,

And neither Moore nor Savory with seidlitz draughts rekindles 'em.

Then there are clubs where persons parliamentary preponderate,

And clubs for men upon the turf (I wonder they ar'n't under it);

Clubs where the winning ways of sharper folks pervert the use of clubs,

Where knaves will make subscribers cry, "Egad! this is the deuce of clubs!"

For country squires the only club in London now is Boodle's, sirs,

The Crockford Club for playful men, the Alfred Club for noodles, sirs:

These are the stages which all men propose to play their parts upon,

For Clubs are what the Londoners have clearly set their hearts upon.

THEODORE HOOK.

AT HURLINGHAM.

HIS was dear Willie's brief despatch,
A curt and yet a cordial summons ;-
"Do come! I'm in to-morrow's match,
And see me whip the Faithful
Commons."

We trundled out behind the bays,

Through miles and miles of brick and garden; Mamma was drest in mauve and maize,—

Of course I wore my Dolly Varden.

A charming scene, and lively too,
The paddock's full, the band is playing
Boulotte's song in Barbe Bleue,

And what are all these people saying?
They flirt they bet! There's Linda Reeves,
Too lovely! I'd give worlds to borrow
Her yellow rose with russet leaves !———
I'll wear a yellow rose to-morrow!

And there are May and Algy Meade;
How proud she looks on her promotion!
The ring must be amused indeed,
And edified by such devotion!
I wonder if she ever guess'd!
I wonder if he'll call on Friday!
I often wonder which is best!-
I only hope my hair is tidy!