One more, my poor first love, appears,
His memory weaves across the years
A silver haze of smiles and tears-
A Harrow Crichton.

Bookworm and bat, what runs he made!
But how he blushed when he betrayed
His passion on King's Road Parade,
Like Toots, at Brighton!

A poet, too, not over-wise;

But still I somehow seem to prize
Those verses on my "sweet grey eyes
And "languid lashes."

Well, we were young-it might have been;
But boys are fickle at eighteen-
Dear Bertie, cold at Kensal Green:
Peace to his ashes!

No, Jane, I'll wear the blue to-night;
I hope you've put that border right-
What! you're awake, you tiny mite!
Come to mamma, dear.

Hark, there's a step outside! I've missed
His name entirely from the list——

Are we both ready to be kissed?
It's your papa, dear!

H. B. FREEMAN.

"THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER."

HIS is my eldest daughter, Sir,-her mother's only care.

You praise her face—Oh, Sir, she is as good as she is fair.

My angel Jane is clever too, accomplishments I've taught her;

I'll introduce her to you, Sir,-This is my eldest Daughter.

I've sought the aid of ornament, be-jewelling her curls;

I've tried her beauty unadorn'd, simplicity and pearls:

I've set her off, to get her off, till fallen off I've thought her;

Yet I've softly breath'd to all the Beaux-" This is my eldest Daughter."

I've tried all styles of hair-dressing, Madona's, frizzes, crops;

Her waist I've lac'd, her back I've brac'd, till circulation stops;

I've padded her, until I have into a Venus wrought

her,

But puffing her has no effect,-This is my eldest Daughter.

Her gowns are à la Ackerman; her corsets à la

Bell;

Yet when the season ends each Beau still leaves his T. T. L.

I patronize each Déjeuner, each party on the

water;

Yet still she hangs upon my arm,-This is my eldest Daughter.

She did refuse a Gentleman,-(I own it was absurd!);

She thought she ought to answer No! He took her at her word!

But she'd say Yes if any one that's eligible sought her;

She really is a charming girl, though she's my eldest Daughter.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE ARCHERY MEETING.

HE archery meeting is fixed for the
Third;

The fuss that it causes is truly absurd;
I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa

and Bess,

And now I must buy each an archery dress! Without a green suit they would blush to be seen, And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green.

Poor fat little Rosa, she's shooting all day!
She sends forth an arrow expertly, they say;.
But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms,
And she seems to be getting such muscular arms;
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed,
Prize bracelets could never be placed on her wrists.

Dear Bess, with her elegant figure and face,
Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place;
But as for the shooting-she never takes aim;
She talks so and laughs so!—the beaux are to
blame;

She doats on flirtation-but oh! by-the-by,
"Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye!

They've made my poor husband an archer elect;
He dresses the part with prodigious effect;
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist,

And a quiver of course, in which arrows are placed; And a bow in his hand-oh! he looks of all things Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings!

They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas!
Must sit on camp-stools with our feet in the
grass;
My Flora and Bessy no partners attract!
The archery men are all cross-beaux, in fact!
Among the young ladies some hits there may be,
But still at my elbow two misses I see!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE FEMALE PHAETON.

HUS Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untam'd,

Bespoke the fair from whence she
sprung,

With little rage inflam'd:

Inflam'd with rage at sad restraint
Which wise mamma ordain'd,
And sorely vext to play the saint
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd.

"Shall I thumb holy books, confin'd
With Abigails, forsaken?
Kitty's for other things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.

"Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?

"What has she better, pray, than I,
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?

"Dearest mamma! for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try;
I'll have my earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.

"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall:

They'll grieve I was not loos'd before:
She, I was loos'd at all!"

Fondness prevail'd, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart's desire,

Obtain'd the chariot for a day,

And set the world on fire.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

"I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING."

MUST come out next Spring, Mamma,
I must come out next Spring;
To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing:

Whene'er I see my sisters dress'd
In leno and in lace,-

Miss Twig's apartment seems to be

A miserable place.

I must come out next Spring, Mamma,

I must come out next Spring;

To keep me with my Governess
Would be a cruel thing.