ANTICIPATION. H yes! he is in Parliament; You can't conceive the time he's spent He'll think of nothing, night and day, No matter what the people say,- "He fill'd an album, long ago, With such delicious rhymes; He'll care for no such nonsense now: "I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun, "Last week I heard his uncle boast He's sure to have the seals; You'll never see him any more, He cannot eat at half-past four : "In short, he'll soon be false and cold, He'll grow next year extremely old, He'll learn to flatter and forsake, To feign and to forget: O whisper-or my heart will break- WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. A NICE CORRESPONDENT! HE glow and the glory are plighted I'm alone in my casement, for Pappy I wish you were here! Were I duller The necklace you fasten'd askew! I want you to come and pass sentence How thrilling, romantic, and true! They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning It was you who first spouted me Browning,— I heard how you shot at The Beeches, There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Alas for the world, and its dearly a measure Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, Your whim is for frolic and fashion, For relics-we all have a few! Love, some day they'll print it, because it FREDERICK Locker. 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. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peer's relations; And, rather than not sport a Lord, Put up 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, Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than sav'd in vulgar company. THOMAS MOORE. "WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?" W HY don't the men propose, mamma? It is no fault of yours, mamma, You fête the finest men in town, I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, For coronets and eldest sons I'm ever on the watch: I've hopes when some distingué beau But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, I've tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books, and talk'd of them, With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, I threw aside the books, and thought I felt convinced that men preferr'd And so I lisp'd out naught beyond |