Grave judges there and jokers, With actors and stockbrokers, With every sort of person, of high and low degree; Professor of art fistic, And preacher ritualistic, With poet wild and mystic- O'er downs to madly scamper, 'Tis just the thing to do you good I think you'll quite agree: All worry you are crushing, Your blood is gaily flushing, As off you're swiftly rushingAt light London-by-the-Sea. With Amazons fast going, Such tangled tresses flowing, Such skirts and dainty ribbons in breezes blowing free: What joy to canter faster With beauties of the castor, As humble riding master, At smart London-by-the-Sea. Then frequently there passes An army of school lasses, So full of buoyant spirits and of gladsome girlish glee; That when they softly patter Some take a modest tiffin, At Streeter's or at Mainwaring's, but that will not suit me; Though folks may call me glutton I do not care a button, But love a lunch with Mutton At this London-by-the-Sea. The flys are slow and mouldy, As ev'ry one has told ye, Its shrimps by far the finest you could ever wish for tea; Its shops are rare and splendid, If spirits you would lighten And swallow his prescriptions and abide by his decree : If nerves be weak or shaken, At our London-by-the-Sea. J. ASHBY STERRY. FROM THE HON. HENRY TO LADY EMMA Paris, March 30, 1832. OU bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, How I came thus to bolt, without saying farewell; And the truth is, as truth you will have, my sweet railer, There are two worthy persons I always feel loth To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,- As somehow one always has scenes with them both: The Snip in ill-humour, the Siren in tears, She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney,— Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey. But to come to the point, tho' you think, I daresay, That 'tis debt or the cholera drives me away, 'Pon honour you're wrong;-such a mere bagatelle As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears: And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pellmell, To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers; This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of, Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of, This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of them, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly. Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation, As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation; No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of, Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; 'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order. This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain To 've left idol mio without an addio, Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan I'll send you some news of Bellini's last trio. N.B. Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out, shop, Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. Small presents for ladies, and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd, To think one knows Latin, when-one, perhaps, doesn't. With some little book about heathen mythology, Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, AN INVITATION TO ROME. THE REPLY. EAR Exile, I was proud to get cotton; You know that you are all to "Pet,"She fear'd that she was quite forgotten! Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, Insists, and she is wise as gentle, That I am still in love! I hope That you feel rather sentimental! Perhaps you think your Love forlore Should pine unless her slave be with her ; Of course you're fond of Rome, and more— Of course you'd like to coax me thither! Che quit this dear delightful maze Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways— I like your confidence, immensely! Some girls who love to ride and race, One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer. To see stone pines and marble gods |