I-bah! begone the stale device! For thirty years, Frank, Christmas found "Son." In me, Frank, and who called me And I have dreamed that when the air And happiness amongst us dwells,-- A thin white hand will chafe once more A sweet, sweet face will bend to mine, God grant it, Frank! though false and vain Acknowledge to be cheaply bought. So paint me in your mind, As one who, fenced with fields of snow, EDMUND YATES. AT A COUNTRY-HOUSE. MANSION, large but not too grand, Can't tell you in what style it's Elizabethan, Gothic, Tudor. Rich ivy softening red brick Conceals all cause for artist stricture; Right homely too the pleasant face, That from our ranks is fast retreating. His wife's to all a liberal hostess; Why, in yon darkened corridor There's even lodging for a ghostess! The guests! Be sure a jovial crew Sweet ladies-lovers not a few Have hence their heart-submission dated. Our host's young daughter, brightly fair, Brings sunshine in the winter, bless her! E'en to yon dried-up fossil there, His learned Reverence, the Professor. For he is here, not half so stiff As when he lectured us at Eton. That smiling lounger's Mr. Smiff, The man they say Miss Rose is sweet on. A plunger's here, a journalist (Two youths whose ways are seldom straight ways), A sporting parson, good at whist, A preaching sportsman, good at gateways; A lady who once wrote a book, And one of whom a book's been written; One who a prize at London took, And one who took a house at Ditton; A "blue" who'll derivations trace And with long words your ears importune; One blonde whose fortune is her face, We dance, we flirt, we shoot, we ride, We fish the river's silver tide, Miss Rose herself can wield a slim rod. We fall in love—and out again; Sometimes we sail in troubled waters, For pleasure oft gives birth to pain When shared with Eve's seductive daughters. C. C. RHYS. ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE. PLAY a spade.-Such strange new faces Are flocking in from near and far; Such frights!-(Miss Dobbs holds all the aces) One can't imagine who they are: The lodgings at enormous prices,New donkeys and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices, Although we're scarcely in July: We're quite as sociable as any, But our old horse can scarcely crawl; And really, where there are so many, We can't tell where we ought to call. 66 Pray who has seen the odd old fellow Almost as yellow as his cheek; "And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker, Prates of his 'orses and his 'oney, Is quite in love with fields and farms; "That poor young man !—I'm sure and certain Draws landscapes,-throws such mournful glances, An ugly name, but Laura fancies "So Lord St. Ives is occupying He brought a lady in the carriage; Blue eyes,-eighteen, or thereabouts ;Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage, But yet the femme de chambre doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her, Poor thing!-and such a charming shawl!—— Well!-till we understand it better, It's quite impossible to call! "Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker, Arrived to-day at Premium Court; |