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But no doubt Sir Francis G-
Should be “ skyed!”
Ah! were I but twenty-two,
For his own!
If I knew but your papa,
As the sun,
J. ASHBY STERRY.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)
HIS relative of mine,
When she died ?
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree,
Has a charm;
For an arm !
Are they dumb ?
When I first
Done their worst.
O, if you now are there,
WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION ?
CHAT is London's last new lion ? Pray,
inform me if you can ; Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an
Otaheite man? For my conversazione you must send me some
thing new, Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the éclat of a
début! I am sick of all the “minstrels," all the “brothers”
this and that, Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies
laugh and chat; And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé, I
suppose, So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his
Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a
rout, I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out! Send something biographical, I think that fashion
spreads, But do not send a poet, till you find one with two
heads. The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a
straw For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a
bashaw ! And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them Oh! if you send a singer, he must sing without a
you send me some one who has travell’d to the moon.
throat ! Oh, if you send a player, he must harp upon one
note ! I must have something marvellous, the marvel
makes the man; What is London's last new lion ? pray inform me if you can.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
TO A LADY,
ON HER PASSION FOR
HAT ecstasies her bosom fire!
How her eyes languish with desire !
Were that fond glance bestowd on me!
Some gems collect; some medals prize,
Philosophers, more grave than wise,