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And once or twice I think repeats
Her joy to see

“ her father's friend."
She looks at me with languid stare,
She orders “tiffin," asks for air,
And grieves o'er “punkahs" missed.

Can this be that same laughing girl,

With merry eye and tangled curl,
I 'neath the hawthorn kissed?

The same, indeed! and why should I

O'er vanished passion vainly grieve ;
Bemoan her greeting chill, or try
Myself unaltered to believe?

Though Ellen's glance be cold and strange,
All unaffected by the change,
I chatter, smile, and bow ;

For, truth to tell, since Ellen wed,

My heart so many times has bled,
As to be callous now!

fine ;

My horse, my club, my opera-stall,

A cheerful fire, a pleasant book,
Are now more potent in their thrall
Than winning voice or upturned look.

My wind in waltzing's growing scant,
In climbing hills I oftener want
To view the prospect

Naught care I now for hair or eyes,

But have great taste in Strasbourg pies,

And something know of wine.
My purse is full, my wants are few,

I've gained a certain meed of fame;
I'm sponsor to a Soyer's stew,
Poole to a coat has given my name.

Bewitching houris nod and smile
As I ride down the “ lady's mile,"

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,
A sudden chord will thrill thro' all
My being, and I feel a tear

Dimming my eye, a tribute paid
To those old days when Nell's head laid
And nestled on my breast.

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,

Were I permitted to bestow, Half of the

years

I've

yet to live,
To feel as I felt long ago!
To feel as fresh in heart and brain,
As free from all earth's earthy pain,
As when, beneath the trees,

I wound my arm round that young girl,

While all her mass of golden curl
Was tossing in the breeze!

EDMUND YATES.

MY OLD COAT.

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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 :
I went to a picnic, met Lucy Lepel,
Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl,
And disjointed the nose of her lover, the Earl.
We rambled away o'er the moorland together,
My coat was bright purple, and so was the heather;
And so was the sunset that blazed in the west,
As Lucy's fair tresses were laid on my breast.
We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame,
But Lucy returned to her Earl all the same;
She's a grandmamma now, and is going down hill,
But my

old velvet coat is a friend to me still.
It was built by a tailor of mighty renown,
Whose art is no longer the talk of the town,
A magical picture my memory weaves
When I thrust my tired arms through its easy old

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.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

“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.
You'd look well enough at a dinner,

I'd wear you with pride at a ball,
But I'm dressing to-night for a wedding-

My own, and you'd not do at all.

You've too many wine-stains about you,

You're scented too much with cigars,
When the gas-light shines full on your collar,

It glitters with myriad stars,
That wouldn't look well at my wedding,

They'd seem inappropriate there-
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, 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,

P

When

you

felt there the tremulous pressure
Of her hand in its delicate glove,
That is telling me, shyly but proudly,

Her trust is as deep as her love.
So go to your grave in the wardrobe,

And furnish a feast for the moth,
Nell's glove shall betray its sweet secrets
To

younger, more innocent cloth.
'Tis time to put on your successor,

It's made in a fashion that's new,
Old coat, I'm afraid it will never
Set as easily on me as you.

GEORGE BAKER, JUN.

SPECTATOR AB EXTRA.

S I 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, 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

call pelf,

And how one ought never to think of one's self,

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