And to give them this title I'm sure isn't wrong, Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.

"In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, You know was the fashion before you left town: The thing's well enough, when allowance is made For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade;

But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords

To those noisy impertinent creatures call'd birds, Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen.

"Yet, though 'tis too rural-to come near the mark,

We all herd in one walk, and that nearest the park, There with ease we may see, as we pass by the

wicket,

The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and—footmen at cricket.

I must though, in justice, declare that the grass,
Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace,
In a little time more will be brown and as flat
As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat.
Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees,
We may see rolls and butter spread under the
trees,

With a small, pretty band in each seat of the

walk

To play little tunes and enliven our talk."

THOMAS TICKELL.

THE JILT.

AY, Lucy, what enamour'd spark
Now sports thee through the gazing
Park

In new barouche or tandem ;

And, as infatuation leads,

Permits his reason and his steeds

To run their course at random?

Fond youth, those braids of ebon hair,
Which to a face already fair

Impart a lustre fairer;

Those locks which now invite to love,
Soon unconfin'd and false shall prove,
And changeful as the wearer.

Unpractised in a woman's guile,

Thou think'st, perchance, her halcyon smile
Portends unruffled quiet;

That, ever-charming, fond and mild,
No wanton thoughts, no passion wild,
Within her soul can riot.

Alas! how often shalt thou mourn
(If nymphs like her, so soon forsworn,
Be worth a moment's trouble),
How quickly own with sad surprise,
The paradise that bless'd thine eyes
Was painted on a bubble.

In her accommodating creed
A lord will always supersede
A commoner's embraces:

His lordship's love contents the fair,
Until enabled to ensnare

At

A nobler prize-his Grace's!

Unhappy are the youths who gaze,
Who feel her beauty's maddening blaze,
And trust to what she utters!
For me, by sad experience wise,
rosy cheeks or sparkling eyes,
My heart no longer flutters.
Chamber'd in Albany, I view
On every side a jovial crew
Of Benedictine neighbours.
I sip my coffee, read the news,
I own no mistress but the muse,
And she repays my labours.

And should some brat her love bespeak
(Though illegitimate and weak
As these unpolish'd verses),
A father's joys shall still be mine,
Without the fear of parish fine,
Bills, beadles, quacks, or nurses.

JAMES SMITH.

DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM—.

The scene is a picnic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures to think that his fiancée, the lovely Belgravinia, is a little too fast.

OW don't look so glum and so sanctified, please,

For folks comme il faut, Sir, are always

at ease;

How dare you suggest that my talk is too free? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park? Or, pray, would you like me to ride after dark? If not, Mr. Prim, I shall say what I see,

Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

What harm am I speaking, you stupid Old Nurse? I'm sure papa's newspaper tells us much. worse, He's a clergyman, too, are you stricter than he? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

I knew who it was, and I said so, that's all ;
I said who went round to her box from his stall;
Pray what is your next prohibition to be?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

"My grandmother would not-" O, would not, indeed?

Just read Horace Walpole- Yes, Sir, I do read. Besides, what's my grandmother's buckram to me? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

"I said it before that old roué, Lord Gadde ;" That's a story, he'd gone: and what harm if I had? He has known me for years-from a baby of three. Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

You go

There

to your Club (and this makes me so wild), you smoke, and you slander man, woman, and child;

But I'm not to know there's such people as she—
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

It's all my own fault; the Academy, Sir,
You whispered to Philip, "No, no, it's not her,
Sir Edwin would hardly"-I heard, mon ami;
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

Well, there, I'm quite sorry; now, stop looking

haughty,

Or must I kneel down on my knees, and say, naughty?"

66

There ! Get me a peach, and I wish you'd agree Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.

CHARLES SHIRLEY BROOKS.

AN EPITAPH.

LOVELY young lady I mourn in my rhymes:

She was pleasant, good-natured, and
civil sometimes.

Her figure was good: she had very fine eyes,
And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise.
Her adorers were many, and one of them said,
"She waltzed rather well! it's a pity she's dead!"
GEORGE JOHN CAYLEY.

MADAME LA MARQUISE.

HE folds of her wine-dark violet dress
Glow over the sofa, fall on fall,
As she sits in the air of her loveliness,
With a smile for each and for all.

Half of her exquisite face in the shade,

Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings; Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid;

In the firelight are sparkling her rings.

As she leans, the slow smile half shut up in her

eyes

Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath :