I long to see the cob and “Rob,”
Old Bevis and the Collie;
And won't we read in "Traveller's Rest!"
Home readings after all are best ;-
None else seem half so "jolly!"
One misses your dear kindly store
Of fancies quaint and funny;
One misses, too, your kind bon-mot ;-
The Mayfair wit I mostly know
Has more of gall than honey!
How tired one grows of " calls and balls"!
This "toujours perdrix" wearies;
I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox;"
(4 propos, I've the loveliest box
For holding Notes and Queries!)
A change of place would suit my case;
You'll take me?- -on probation?
As "Lady-help," then, let it be;
I feel (as Lavender shall see)
That Jams are my vocation!
How's Lavender? My love to her.
Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?— Has Hawthorn stubb'd the common clear? You'll let me give some picnics, Dear, And ask the Vanes and Towers?
I met Belle Vane. "He's" still in Spain !
Sir John won't let them marry.
Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink;
And Charlie,-changing Charlie,-think,
Is now au mieux with Carry!
And No. You know what "No" I mean-
There's no one yet at present:
The Benedick I have in view
Must be a something wholly new,--
One father's far too pleasant.
So hey, I say, for home and you!
Goodbye to Piccadilly;
Balls, beaux, and Bolton Row, adieu!
Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;
Till then, your Own Fond-MILLY.
THE LAST MAN OF THE SEASON.
EHOLD the last man of the season
Left pacing the park all alone,
He'll blush if you ask him the reason,
Why he with the rest is not gone?
He'll seek you with shame and with sorrow,
He'll smile with affected delight;
He'll swear he leaves London to-morrow,
And only came to it last night!
He'll tell you that nobles select him
To cheer their romantic retreats,
That friends from all quarters expect him
To stay at their elegant seats.
Invited by all, then, how can he
Know which he should favour or shun;
He's sure of offending so many,
By paying a visit to one.
He'll say that the Yacht Club implore him
To cruise in their exquisite ships:
That ladies of fashion quite bore him
To join in their wandering trips:
That stewards of all races entreat him
To go to them; what can he do?
So odd you should happen to meet him,
So strange as he's just passing through.
In town, in the month of September,
We find neither riches nor rank; In vain we look out for a member To give us a nod or a frank. Each knocker in silence reposes, every mansion you find
One dirty old woman who dozes,
Or peeps through the dining-room blind!
Then hence, thou last man of the season;
Lest fashion the outrage should blab;
Shrink back as if guilty of treason
Within the dark depths of thy cab.
If money be wanting, go borrow,
Remain-and thy character's lost!
Go print thy departure to-morrow:
Sir Linger from Long's to the coast!"
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.
A LAY OF THE MORTE SAISON.
Y Brown has gone away to Greece,
My Robinson to Rome;
My Jones was off to-day for Nice,
And I am still at home.
One friend is on the Tiber,
Another on the Rhone,
The third a bock-imbiber—
And I am all alone.
The Row is dull as dull can be ;
Deserted is the Drive;
The glass that stood at eighty-three
Stands now at sixty-five.
The summer days are over;
The town, ah, me! has flown
Through Dover or to clover-
And I am all alone.
I hate the mention of Lucerne,
Of Baden and the Rhine;
I hate the Oberland of Berne,
And Alp and Apennine.
I hate the wilds of Norway,
As here I sit and moan-
With none to cross my doorway—
For I am all alone.
Brick streets do not a prison make,
Nor hollow squares a cell;
And so for Memory's pleasant sake,
I'll bear my sorrow well.
My lyre may lose the gladness
That mark'd its former tone;
But, oh! respect my sadness-
For I am all alone.
EE Richmond is clad in a mantle of
The woods that o'ershadow'd the
Now bend with their load, while the river below,
In musical murmurs forgetting to flow,
Stands mournfully frozen and still.
Who cares for the winter! my sunbeams shall
Serene from a register stove;
With two or three jolly companions to dine,
And two or three bottles of generous wine,
The rest I relinquish to Jove.
The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell,
Condemn'd in its glory to fall:
The marigold dies unperceiv'd in the dell,
Unable alike to retard or impel
The crisis assign'd to us all.
Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears;
To-day is the prize we have won ;
Ere surly old age in its wrinkle appears,
With laughter and love, in your juvenile years
Make sure of the days as they run.
The park and the playhouse my presence shall greet,
The opera yield its delight;
Catalani may charm me, but ten times more sweet,
The musical voice of Laurette when we meet
In tête-à-tête concert at night.
False looks of denial in vain would she fling,
In vain to some corner begone;
And if in our kisses I snatch off her ring,
It is, to my fancy, a much better thing
Than a kiss after putting one on!
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