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She kept an album, too, at home,

Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome,

Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter;
And autographs of Prince Laboo,

And recipes of elder water.
And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored,

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolish’d.

She smild on many just for fun

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute ; I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, and oh!

How sweetly all her notes were folded !

Our love was like most other loves

A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “ Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows and then we parted.

We parted — months and years roll'd by;

We met again four summers after ; Our parting was all sob and sigh

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell,

There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle,

But only Mrs. — Something - Rogers.

I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh,

And an infant's idle laughter,
The Old Year went with mourning by -

The New came dancing after !
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,

Let Revelry hold her ladle;
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,

Fling roses on the cradle;
Mutes to wait on the funeral state;

Pages to pour the wine;
A requiem for Twenty-Eight,

And a health to Twenty-Nine!

Alas for human happiness!

Alas for human sorrow ! Our yesterday is nothingness,

What else will be our morrow ?
Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,

And Knavery stealing purses;
Still cooks must live by making tarts,

And wits by making verses ;
While sages prate and courts debate,

The same stars set and shine; And the world as it rolled through Twenty-Eight,

Must roll through Twenty-Nine.

Some King will come, in Heaven's good time,

To the tomb his father came to;
Some Thief will wade through blood and crime

To a crown he has no claim to;
Some suffering land will rend in twain

The manacles that bound her;
And gather the links of the broken chain

To fasten them proudly round her;
The grand and great will love and hate,

And combat and combine ;
And much where we were in Twenty-Eight,

We shall be in Twenty-Nine.

O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent,

And Kenyon to sink the Nation; And Shiel will abuse the Parliament,

And Peel the Association;

And thought of bayonets and swords

Will make ex-Chancellors merry ; And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,

And throats in the County of Kerry;
And writers of weight will speculate

On the Cabinet's design;
And just what it did in Twenty-Eight

It will do in Twenty-Nine.
And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles,

And the God of Cups his orgies; And there'll be riots in St. Giles,

And weddings in St. George's; And mendicants will sup like Kings,

And Lords will swear like lackeys; And black eyes oft will lead to rings,

And rings will lead to black eyes ;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate,

In a dialect all divine ;
Alas! they married in Twenty-Eight,

They will part in Twenty-Nine.
My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,

And talk of his oils and blubbers;
My aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,

And rather longer rubbers;
My cousin in Parliament will prove

How utterly ruined Trade is :
My brother, at Eton, will fall in love

With half a hundred ladies ;
My patron will sate his pride from plate,

And his thirst from Bordeaux wine :
His nose was red in Twenty-Eight,

"T will be redder in Twenty-Nine.

And oh! I shall find how, day by day,

All thoughts and things look older;
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,

And the heart of Friendship colder;
But still I shall be what I have been,

Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,

And fond of talking treason;
I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,

And throw and write my line;
And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-Eight

I shall worship in Twenty-Nine.

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