And once or twice I think repeats And grieves o'er "punkahs" missed. The same, indeed! and why should I Myself unaltered to believe? Though Ellen's glance be cold and strange, I chatter, smile, and bow; For, truth to tell, since Ellen wed, My horse, my club, my opera-stall, Naught care I now for hair or eyes, My purse is full, my wants are few, I've gained a certain meed of fame; Poole to a coat has given my name. Or hang across the rail; I lounge at White's, am great at Pratt's, Yet sometimes in my opera-stall Dimming my eye, a tribute paid To those old days when Nell's head laid What lies there now? a load of care, The cambric-fronted shirt I wear, And black embroidered vest. But I would give, ay, I would give, To feel as fresh in heart and brain, I wound my arm round that Was tossing in the breeze! EDMUND YATES. 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 : Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl, We rambled away o'er the moorland together, We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame, It was built by a tailor of mighty renown, When I thrust my tired arms through its easy old sleeves. I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe, Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high, 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. MORTIMER COLLINS. "LE DERNIER JOUR D'UN CONDAMNÉ." LD coat, for some three or four seasons You'd look well enough at a dinner, You've too many wine-stains about you, When the gas-light shines full on your collar, That wouldn't look well at my wedding, Nell doesn't use diamond powder, 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, P. When felt there the tremulous pressure Of her hand in its delicate glove, So go to your grave in the wardrobe, Set as easily on me as you. GEORGE BAKER, JUN. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. SI sat at the Café I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, They may sneer as they like about 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, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, And how one ought never to think of one's self, |