Prates of his 'orses and his 'oney,

Is quite in love with fields and farms;
A horrid Vandal,—but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball;
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.

"That poor young man !—I'm sure and certain Despair is making up his shroud;

He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud;

Draws landscapes,-throws such mournful glances,
Writes verses, has such splendid eyes;

An ugly name, but Laura fancies

He's some great person in disguise!-
And since his dress is all the fashion,
And since he's very dark and tall,
I think that out of pure compassion,
I'll get Papa to go and call.

"So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel!
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell,

He brought a lady in the carriage;

Blue eyes,-eighteen, or thereabouts ;Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage, But yet the femme de chambre doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her, Poor thing!—and such a charming shawl!Well!-till we understand it better,

It's quite impossible to call!

"Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker,

Arrived to-day at Premium Court;

.

I would not, for the world, cast anchor
In such a horrid dangerous port;
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,-
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)—
The roof's as crazy as its master,

And he was born in fifty-six;

Stairs creaking-cracks in every landing,-
The colonnade is sure to fall;

We shan't find post or pillar standing,
Unless we make great haste to call.

"Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures
Last Sunday in the Rector's seat?
The finest shape,—the loveliest features,—
I never saw such tiny feet!

My brother, (this is quite between us),
Poor Arthur, 'twas a sad affair ;
Love at first sight!—she's quite a Venus,
But then she's poorer far than fair;
And so my father and my mother
Agreed it would not do at all;
And so, I'm sorry for my brother!
It's settled that we're not to call.

"And there's an author, full of knowledge;
And there's a captain on half-pay;
And there's a baronet from college,
Who keeps a boy and rides a bay;
And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,
Fine specimen of brogue and bone;
And Doctor Calipee, the canon,
Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone:
A maiden lady is adorning

The faded front of Lily Hall :-
Upon my word, the first fine morning,

We'll make a round, my dear, and call."

Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
The swallow in my humble thatch;
Your son may find a better patron,
Your niece may meet a richer match:
I can't afford to give a dinner,

I never was on Almack's list;
And, since I seldom rise a winner,
I never like to play at whist:
Unknown to me the stocks are falling,
Unwatched by me the glass may
fall;
Let all the world pursue its calling,—
I'm not at home if people call.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED,

BRIGHTON.

OW fruitful autumn lifts his sunburnt head,

The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten,

The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed,

And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton.

The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green,

To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite, Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne, Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite.

Phoebus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade,
The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's ponies,
Scale the west cliff, or visit the parade,

While

poor papa in town a patient drone is.

Loose trousers snatch the wreath from pantaloons; Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in;

But now, (so will the Prince's light dragoons,) White jean have triumph'd o'er their Indian brethren.

Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns,

Intent alike to please the London glutton;

This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns,

That, for our dinner, Southdown lamb and

mutton.

Yet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns,
Visits alike the cot and the Pavilion,

And for a bribe with equal scorn disdains
My half-a-crown, and Baring's half-a-million.

Alas! how short the span of human pride!
Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes are
undone ;

Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside,
Waits to take back the unwilling bard to London.

Ye circulating novelists, adieu!

Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten;

Billiards begone! avaunt, illegal loo!

Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton..

Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn,
Proud as Phoenicia, queen of watering-places!
Boys yet unbreech'd, and virgins yet unborn,
On thy bleak downs shall tan their blooming
faces.
JAMES SMITH.

WINTER IN BRIGHTON.

ILL there be snowfall on lofty Soracte,
After a summer so tranquil and

torrid?

Whoso detests the east wind, as a fact he
Thinks 'twill be horrid.

But there are zephyrs more mild by the ocean,
Every keen touch of the snowdrifts to lighten :
If to be cosy and snug you've a notion—

Winter in Brighton!

Politics nobody cares about. Spurn a
Topic whereby all our happiness suffers.
Dolts in the back streets of Brighton return a
Couple of duffers.

Fawcett and White in the Westminster Hades
Strive the reporters' misfortunes to heighten.
What does it matter? Delicious young ladies
Winter in Brighton!

Good is the turtle for luncheon at Mutton's,
Good is the hock that they give you at

Bacon's,

Mainwaring's fruit in the bosoms of gluttons
Yearning awakens ;
Buckstone comes hither, delighting the million,
'Mong the theatrical minnows a Triton;
Dickens and Lemon pervade the Pavilion ;-
Winter in Brighton!

If you've a thousand a year, or a minute-
If you're a D'Orsay, whom every one follows-
If you've a head (it don't matter what's in it)
Fair as Apollo's-