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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 ;
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, l’ve the loveliest box
For holding Notes and Queries :)
A change of place would suit my case;
You'll take me ?—on probation ?
That Jams are my vocation !
How's Lavender? My love to her.
Does Briggs still Airt 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 :
One father's far too pleasant.
So hey, I say, for home and you!
Goodbye to Piccadilly;
THE LAST MAN OF THE SEASON.
EHOLD the last man of the season
Left pacing the park all alone,
Why he with the rest is not gone ? He'll seek
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
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;
By paying a visit to one.
To cruise in their exquisite ships:
To join in their wandering trips :
That stewards of all races entreat him
To go to them ; what can he do?
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;
And I am still at home.
Another on the Rhone,
And I am all alone,
The Row is dull as dull can be ;
Deserted is the Drive;
Stands now at sixty-five.
The town, ah, me! has flown
And I am all alone.
Of Baden and the Rhine ;
And Alp and Apennine.
As here I sit and moan-
For I am all alone.
Nor hollow squares a cell ;
I'll bear my sorrow well.
That mark'd its former tone;
HENRY S. LEIGH.
hill, 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
The rest I relinquish to Jove.
The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell,
Condemn’d in its glory to fall:
The crisis assign'd to us all.
Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears ;
To-day is the prize we have won ;
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;