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H yes! he is in Parliament;
He's been returning thanks ;
Already on his franks.
But place, and the Gazette : No matter what the people say,
You won't believe them yet.
“He fillid an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes ;
His speeches in the Times ;
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
Oh! don't believe them yet!
“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He's danced his last quadrille.
any fair coquette ; He'll never laugh at Drury Lane :”
Psha !- don't believe them yet.
“ Last week I heard his uncle boast
He's sure to have the seals;
That he has dined at Peel's;
You'll never see him any more,
He's in a different set ;
No ?_don't believe them yet.
“ In short, he'll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He'll tell enormous lies;
To feign and to forget :”—
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
A NICE CORRESPONDENT!
HE glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come ; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are
Is summon’d to dinner at Kew:
I'm thinking of you !
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
your favourite colourDear Fred, how I wish you were here ! I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fasten'd askew ! Was there ever so rude and so reckless
A darling as you ?
I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know “ Janet's Repentance”?
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey !
Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures; It was you who first spouted me Browning,
That stupid old Browning of yours !
I'm anxious to give him his due,
A poet as you!
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches,
And echo'd the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Fashion is making
Her idol of you!
Alas for the world, and its dearly
Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ; Sometimes I half wish I was merely
A plain or a penniless miss ;
Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too,
My darling, to you !
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art ;-
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
For relics-we all have a few !
Was written to you.
EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.
AMENT, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside him place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a star he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
He took, of course, to peer's relations ;
with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em
With “ Lord” and “Duke,” were sweet to call; And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than say'd in vulgar company.
6. WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE ?” ZHY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose ?
he goes! It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;
Yet, oh, they won't propose !
To make a proper match;
I'm ever on the watch:
A glance upon me throws;
Alas, he won't propose !
And dressing like a blue;
As if I'd read them through!
The heads of all the beaux ;
And oh, they won't propose !
That ignorance was bliss;
A simple sort of Miss ;
or plain “noes," And wore a sweet unmeaning smile ;
Yet, oh, they won't propose !