CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.

To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town,

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-windowed box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,—
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his usual rhyme,
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen,.

We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and

queen;

These pastimes gave oil to Time's roundabout

wheel,

Before we began to be growing genteel;

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.

'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown, But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop; Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff, Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the Cliff;

Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt,

Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon, And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon; My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, And there is not a lock in the house that will

shut.

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.

At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane, And murmur in secret,- 66 Oh, Billiter-lane!" But would not express what I think for a crown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, His Majesty never invites me to dine;

The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier,

Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here. If that be the case, why then welcome again Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane. Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, That Nobody now spends his Christmas in

Town.

JAMES SMITH.

259

SONG TO FANNY.

N

ATURE! thy fair and smiling face

Has now a double power to bless, For 'tis the glass in which I trace My absent Fanny's loveliness.

Her heavenly eyes above me shine,
The rose reflects her modest blush,
She breathes in every eglantine,

She sings in every warbling thrush.

That her dear form alone I see

Need not excite surprise in any,

For Fanny's all the world to me,

And all the world to me is Fanny.

HORACE SMITH.

6c

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue

Pass all paintings' reach,

Ringdove's notes are discord to

The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive,
And on canvas show it;

But for perfect worship leave

Dora to her poet.

261

THOMAS Campbell.