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Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,

And slang that's rather scaring,It can't approach its prototypes

In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell's days of buckle shoes,

Lawn cravats, and roll collars, They'd fight, and woo, and bet—and lose

Like gentlemen and scholars : I'm glad young men should go


pace, I half forgive Old Rapid ; These louts disgrace their name and race

So vicious and so vapid !

Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,

Will then be quite forgotten, And all we much revere will speed

From ripe to worse than rotten :
Let grass

sprout between

yon stones, And owls then roost at Boodle's, For Echo will hurl back the tones

Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of Old Cockaigne,

Where wit and wealth were squander'd; The halls that tell of hoop and train,

Where grace and rank have wandered ; Those halls where ladies fair and leal

First ventured to adore me !Something of that old love I feel For this old street before me.


TO Q. H. F.


There's not a doubt about the date,-

You're dead and buried :

cemarked, the seasons roll, And ’cross the Styx full many a soul

Has Charon ferried,
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know,

To help refine us,
Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet

The bore Crispinus;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.
Ours is so far-advanced an age !
Sensation tales, a classic stage,

Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call

Their sires gorillas!
We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.
And yet, how strange! Our “world,” to-day,
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh

Your Roman cronies ;


Walk in the Park-you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail

By Lydia's ponies,
Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold !
His long-bow” hunting tales of old

Are now but duller ;
Fair Neobule too ! Is not
One Hebrus here—from Aldershot ?
Aha, you

Be wise. There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.
And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind

Terentia's skirting;
Here's Pyrrha, “golden-haired” at will ;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still ;

Asterie flirting,
Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,-
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.

So with the rest. Who will may trace
Behind the new each elder face

Defined as clearly;
Science proceeds, and man stands still ;
Our “ world” to-day's as good, or ill,-

As cultured (nearly)
As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.



HOPE I'm fond of much that's good,

As well as much that's gay;
I'd like the country if I could ;

I love the Park in May:
And when I ride in Rotten Row,
I wonder why they called it so.
A lively scene on turf and road;

The crowd is bravely drest :
The Ladies' Mile has overflowed,

The chairs are in request :
The nimble air, so soft, so clear,
Hardly can stir a ringlet there.
I'll halt beneath the pleasant trees,

And drop my bridle-rein,
And, quite alone, indulge at ease,

The philosophic vein:
I'll moralize on all I see-
Yes, it was all arranged for me !
Forsooth, and on a livelier spot

The sunbeam never shines.
Fair ladies here can talk and trot

With statesmen and divines : Could I have chosen, I'd have been A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean. What grooms! What gallant gentlemen!

What well-appointed hacks ! What glory in their pace, and then

What beauty on their backs!

My Pegasus would never flag
If weighted as my lady's nag.
But where is now the courtly troop

That once rode laughing by ?
I miss the curls of Cantilupe,

The laugh of Lady Di:
They all could laugh from night till morn,
And Time has laughed them all to scorn.

I then could frolic in the van

With dukes and dandy earls,
Then I was thought a nice young man

By rather nice young girls!
I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,
And try one canter up and down.

Ah, no—I'll linger here awhile,
And dream of days of

yore ;
For me bright eyes have lost the smile,

sunny smile they wore :
Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,
That I'm not quite so handsome now.




HERE'S a tempting bit of greenery

of rus in urbe sceneryThat's haunted by the London

upper ten;" Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian

may force back Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.

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