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Well I remember those days of yore,

Those still sweet days that can never again Come up from Dreamland's silent shore,

Though I long for them in vain. O the tender blue in Amy's eyes,

Where the love-light glitter'd, soft and modest! And I see her form before me rise,

So delicately bodiced.
And the crescent moon in the sky is faint,

And the sunset-flags in the west unfurl,
And she trips by my side, a maiden, a saint,

All my own--that fair young girl. Now the old bells ràng in that grey church tower, And every

cloud from the heavens had fled'Twas of sweet spring days the very

flower When Amy and I were wed. Why should I think of the honeymoon,

Of the vague red cliffs and the bright blue sea ? o I drank the wine of my life that June,

When the wind on the sands blew freeWhen the seagull dipt, and the white sail glittered,

And my gay girl-wife on the sands would sing, And never a thought of care embittered

My days with that sweet young thing.
Well, it's over now.

We didn't agree.
I like écarté. I'm fond of pool.
A man can't die of that curst ennui

With a pretty little fool.
Her modiste's bills were large, I thought.

I hated her mother, a sour old girl ;
And said perhaps what I hadn't ought

Of her stiff old uncle, the Earl,

And the devil-black eyes of little Lorette

Made rather a fool of me, that I allow. And I went out to supper, and got into debt,

And at last came a deuce of a row.

Well, thanks to Sir Cresswell Cresswell, we,

Who were man and wife, are severed again, It's an easy business now, you see. Jack, another glass of champagne.

MORTIMER COLLINS,

A COMEDY,

PROLOGUE.
WÁS all over between us, you thought,

when we parted,
'Twas good-bye to me and to trouble

or care ; A sigh and a tear, a poor boy broken-hearted, Was naught, for what feelings had you then to

spare? 'Twas nothing to you that my best hopes were

shattered, You knew all the time that you meant we should

part; With fair words did you think I e'er could feel

flattered, From lips feigning truth with such falseness at

heart?

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Act I. Ah ! lovely and lost one, I muse in the gloaming,

And think of one midsummer twilight last year, But one little year past, when we two were roaming

With hand locked in hand by the still solemn mere. Have you, love, forgotten that night and those

pledges, Half-whispered, half-sobbed, 'neath that calm

summer sky? In fancy I hear the faint shiver of sedges,

And still the low plash of the water seems nigh.

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You've made, what the world calls, a capital mar

riage, Your dinners are perfect, your dances the rage ; They talk, at the clubs, of your new pony-carriage, And sneer at your husband, who's double

your age. Ah! fairest of false ones, I'd have

you

remember, Though blooming and bright be the freshness

of May,

'Twill tremble before the cool breath of December,

'Twill silently droop and then wither away!

Act III.

They tell me you're happy; and yet, on reflection, I find they talk more of your wealth than of

you; And if you have moments of thought and dejec

tion, It may

be those moments are known but to few; You've rubies and pearls and a brilliant tiara;

You breakfast off Sèvres of the real bleu du Roi ; 'Tis better no doubt than a heart, mia cara, And a poor posy ring with its “Pensez à Act IV. Nay, blame not your husband, nor think you're

moi ?"

used badly, 'Twas simply a matter of money and trade ; You named him your “figure,” he paid it too

gladly, Your heart was no part of the bargain he made. He purchased a wife to embellish his table,

To humour his whims and obey his behests: One lovely and clever, one willing and ableTo prove his good taste and to talk to his guests.

Act V. At times, when 'mid riches and splendour you

languish, To still your poor conscience you fruitlessly try; As tears are fast falling in bitterest anguish, You'll own there is something that money can't

buy. Yes, love, there are mem'ries e’en gold cannot stifle,

The ghost of a dead love that will not be laid; And while in the bright world of pleasure you

trifle, Do you never meet the sad eyes of the shade ?

J. ASHBY STERRY.

AT HOME.
NVITATIONS I will write ;

All the world I will invite;
I will deign to show civility

To the tip-tops of gentility,
To the cream of the Nobility,—
I'm “at home ” next Monday night.

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See

my footman, how he runs !
Ev'ry paltry street he shuns.
I'm “ at home” to Peers and Peeresses,
Who reside in Squares and Terraces ;
I'm “at home" to Heirs and Heiresses,
And, of course, to eldest Sons.
I'm “at home" to all the set
Of exclusives I have met;
If a Rival open all her doors,
All the coronets shall pass her doors;
I'm “at home” to the Ambassadors,
Though their names I quite forget.
I'm “at home” to Guardsmen all,
Be they short, or be they tall ;
I'm “at home" to men Political,
Poetical and Critical,
And the punning men of wit, I call
Acquisitions at a Ball.
Oh! the matchless Collinet
On his flageolet shall play ;
How I love to hear the thrill of it!
Pasta's song, think what she will of it,
He will make a quick Quadrille of it,-
Dove sono,”-dance away.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

NOT AT HOME.

OT at home! not at home! close my

curtain again;
Go and send the intruders away ;
They may knock if they will, but 'tis

labour in vain,
For I am not made up for the day.

F

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