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Oh! the times that I have been there, and the

types that I have seen there Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the "swell;" And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians

and outsiders) Are considerably more than I can tell.

When first the warmer weather brought these

people all together, And the crowds began to thicken through the

Row, I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, in

haling All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.

And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers

and the talkers Left me lonely in the thickest of the throng, Not a touch upon my shoulder-not a nod from

one beholder> As the stream of Art and Nature went along.

But I brought away one image from that fashion

able scrimmage, Of a figure and a face-ah, such a face ! Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest

of creatures
On my memory, as Love alone can trace.

Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they

were sandy), Whose absurd salute was honour’d by a smile ? Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her

goodness, When she evidently loathed him all the while ?

Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that

I have tasted, Since the day (it seems a century ago) When my heart was won instanter, by a lady in a

canter, On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row !




TO HE pass’d up the aisle on the arm of

her sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,

Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; Half London was there, and, my word, there were

few That stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,

But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.

Beautiful Bride !-So meek in thy splendour,
So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,

Departing you leave us the town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bower, unsought,
And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship,-confound him!




YH, Dora, my darling, can your recollec

tion Revert to a Sunday once early in

June ?

When leaving your aunt's ever-watchful protec

tion, You saucily said you'd “come back again soon, But must see the seal and the spotted hyena,

And doted on zoophytes, scarlet and blue”,Poor aunt left at three, and at six we'd not seen

her, That bright summer Sunday we met at the Zoo.

You wore, I remember, the nicest of dresses,
So simple and fresh, though it would not com-

pare With Miss Buhl's splendid train, while your sunny

bright tresses Could never out-rival her“ Brittany” hair : Her parasol shaded the costliest bonnet'Twas gorgeous and showy, 'twas heavy and

new; While yours was of lace, with blush roses upon it, That gay summer Sunday we lounged in the


You recollect loitering down by the water

I mean by the pond where the pelicans dwellA small glove was pressed, it was six-and-a-quarter, A hand rather smaller was p'r’aps pressed as

well; You said it was nonsense, and would not believe


I vowed, on my honour, 'twas perfectly trueThose lashes down-drooping could never deceive

me, That sweet summer Sunday we passed at the


While strolling around that green pond edged

with rushesI wished we could wander for miles and for

miles Your eyes brightly shone, whilst the loveliest

blushes Flushed cheeks dimpled o'er by the sweetest

of smiles. Then archly you said, with the sweetest of glances,

“Who Airted at Prince's with Lily and Loo ? What makes you so churlish at dinners and dances, When you can be so nice when we meet at the

Zoo ?


How swift flew the hours as we wandered together,

Forgetful of Aunt as she sat in the shade! 'Twas really too bad in that broiling hot weather; And when we returned what

you made! “Past six, Aunt ? It can't be ! You surely are

jokingWe've not seen the zebra nor red kangaroo !” Then prettily pouting, you looked so provoking,

That fine summer Sunday we roamed at the Zoo.

While bright autumn leaves in the country are

falling, And London is empty, the butterflies flown; That sunshiny Sunday I can't help recalling,

As I sit in dull chambers and ponder alone. And now you are down at “ The Larches," my

treasure, To find short days long, for there's nothing to do; Does ever come o'er you with exquisite pleasure The thought of that Sunday we loved at the Zoo?






ORDS, knights, and squires, the

numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's

fetters, Were summon’d by her high command,

To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look

The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ;
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,

And I may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silkworms beds

With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads,

In papers round her baby's hair ;

receive and own


flame, For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas ! when she shall tear

The rhymes some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

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