with a Sugger candid Castle maid by Gunter and the Flaminggoes will be toucht up with French ruge and the Damisels will hav chaplits of heartifitial Flours. The Sloath is proposd to hav an ellegunt Stait Bed-and the Bever is to ware one of Perren's lite Warter Proof Hats-and the Balld Vulters baldnes will be hided by a small Whig from Trewfits. The Crains will be put into trousirs and the Hippotomus tite laced for a waste. Experience will dictait menny more imbellishing modes, with witch I conclud that I am Your Honners Very obleeged and humbel former Servant, The Bay at the Lore.* "Alone I did it!-Boy!" CORIOLANUS. I SAY, little Boy at the Nore, Do you come from the small Isle of Man? Why, your history a mystery must be,— Come tell us as much as you can, Little Boy at the Nore! You live it seems wholly on water, Which your Gambier calls living in clover; But how comes it, if that is the case, You're eternally half seas over,— Little Boy at the Nore? While you ride-while you dance-while you float— Never mind your imperfect orthography; But give us as well as you can, Your watery auto-biography, Little Boy at the Nore! LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR. I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, In a sort of sea negus I dwells; Half and half 'twixt salt water and Port, I'm reckon'd the first of the swells I'm the Boy at the Nore! A buoy moored at the Nore, near the mouth of the Thames. I lives with my toes to the flounders, And watches through long days and nights; Yet, cruelly eager, men look To catch the first glimpse of my lights— I'm the Boy at the Nore. I never gets cold in the head, So my life on salt water is sweet,— As the Boy at the Nore. There's one thing, I'm never in debt: So the man to beat Cits as goes by, In keeping the head above water, Is the Boy at the Nore. I've seen a good deal of distress, They should do as I do-rise o'er all; Aye, a good floating capital get, Like the Boy at the Nore! I'm a'ter the sailors own heart, And cheers him, in deep water rolling; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore! Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off For a week to make love with my wheedles; If the tight little Boy at the Nore Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, We'd have two at the Nore! * A word caught from some American Trader in passing. They thinks little of sizes on water, Yes-the Thames is oppress'd with Great Hulks, But I've done for the water is heaving Is the Boy at the Nore! SOMETHING ABOVE THE COMMON. Johnsoniana. "None despise puns but those who cannot make them." SWIFT. SIR, To the Editor of the Comic Annual. As I am but an occasional reader in the temporary indulgence of intellectual relaxation, I have but recently become cognizant of the metropolitan publication of Mr. Murray's Mr. Croker's Mr. Boswell's Dr. Johnson: a circumstance the more to be deprecated, for if I had been simultaneously aware of that amalgamation of miscellaneous memoranda, I could have contributed a personal quota of characteristic colloquial anecdotes to the biographical reminiscences of the multitudinous lexicographer, which, although founded on the basis of indubitable veracity, has never transpired among the multifarious effusions of that stupendous complication of mechanical ingenuity, which, according to the technicalities in usage in our modern nomenclature, has obtained the universal cognomen of the press. Expediency imperiously dictates that the nominal identity of the hereditary kinsman, from whom I derive my authoritative responsibility, shall be inviolably and umbrageously obscured: but in future variorum editions his voluntary addenda to the already inestimable concatenation of circumstantial particularisation might typographically be discriminated from the literary accumulations of |