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And once or twice I think repeats
“ her father's friend."
Can this be that same laughing girl,
With merry eye and tangled curl,
The same, indeed! and why should I
O'er vanished passion vainly grieve ;
Though Ellen's glance be cold and strange,
For, truth to tell, since Ellen wed,
My heart so many times has bled,
My horse, my club, my opera-stall,
A cheerful fire, a pleasant book,
My wind in waltzing's growing scant,
Naught care I now for hair or eyes,
But have great taste in Strasbourg pies,
And something know of wine.
I've gained a certain meed of fame;
Bewitching houris nod and smile
Or hang across the rail ;
I lounge at White's, am great at Pratt's,
I'm loved by all the tabby-cats,
Whose daughters are for sale. Yet sometimes in my opera-stall
A voice will ring upon my ear,
Dimming my eye, a tribute paid
What lies there now ? a load of care,
The cambric-fronted shirt I wear,
But I would give, ay, I would give,
Were I permitted to bestow, Half of the
yet to live,
I wound my arm round that young girl,
While all her mass of golden curl
MY OLD COAT.
HIS old velvet coat has grown queer, I
admit, And changed is the colour and loose
is the fit; Though to beauty it certainly cannot aspire, 'Tis a cosy old coat for a seat by the fire.
When I first put it on it was awfully swell :
old velvet coat is a friend to me still.
sleeves. I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe, Sweet maidens of old that are long over-ripe, And a troop of old cronies, right gay cavaliers, Whose guineas paid well for champagne at Watier's. A strong generation, who drank, fought, and kissed, Whose hands never trembled, whose shots never
missed, Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high, We remember them well, sir, my old coat and I. Ah! gone is the age
of wild doings at court, Rotten boroughs, knee-breeches, hair triggers and
port; Still I've got a magnum to moisten my
throat, And I'll drink to the Past in my tattered old coat.
“LE DERNIER JOUR D'UN CONDAMNÉ.”
LD coat, for some three or four seasons
We've been jolly comrades, but now We part, old companion, for ever ;
To fate, and the fashion I bow.
I'd wear you with pride at a ball,
My own, and you'd not do at all.
You've too many wine-stains about you,
You're scented too much with cigars,
It glitters with myriad stars,
They'd seem inappropriate there-
She tells me it ruins the hair.
You've been out on Cozzen's piazza
Too late, when the evenings were damp, When the moonbeams were silvering Cro'nest,
And the lights were all out in the camp. You've rested on highly-oiled stairways
Too often, when sweet eyes were bright, And somebody's ball dress, not Nelly's,
Flowed round you in rivers of white.
There's a reprobate looseness about
you, Should I wear you to-night, I believe, As I come with my bride from the altar,
You'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
felt there the tremulous pressure
Her trust is as deep as her love.
And furnish a feast for the moth,
younger, more innocent cloth.
It's made in a fashion that's new,
GEORGE BAKER, JUN.
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA.
S I sat at the Café I said to myself,
what they call pelf,
eating and drinking, But help it I cannot, I cannot help
thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
How pleasant it is to have money. I sit at my table en grand seigneur, · And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor, Not only the pleasure itself of good living, But also the pleasure of now and then giving :
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money. They may talk as they please about what they
And how one ought never to think of one's self,