And note the tittle-tattle down

That floats in hear-say on the Town ;

Who Lady A. is going to wed,

When Mrs. B. was put to bed,

And what's the kind of liaison

'Twixt Captain White and Mrs. Brown ;How the "bend sinister" got place

Upon the 'scutcheon of "his Grace;"
And whether Lady C.'s faux pas

Is like or not to end in law;

With all the racy anecdotes

Outpoured from rumour's thousand throats,
Of husband, brother, friend, or wife,
Condemned to fashionable life!

If such a dame, so free and easy
With others' characters, grow queasy
The instant that her own's assailed,
It is a fact to be bewailed;

But ladies hence should take a hint,
Nor scatter dirt-at least, in print!

Song writers, an amphibious band,
In yonder crowded corner stand;
Vocal as linnets in the spring,
Each waiting to be asked to sing;
And in that hallowed circle sits

That first of playwrights and of wits

So says he o'er and o'er again

Who robs the French for Drury Lane;
But lest such deeds should rivals harden,
Decries the thieves of Covent Garden!

And near to them, from Cork's gay city,
Two funny rogues who do the witty,
Inspired by gin and true "potheen,"
For Mister Fraser's Magazine; *
And think by aping" Philip, drunk,"
Το their wit and "shew their spunk;
prove
Though did they strive till next October,
They'd fail in aping "Philip, sober;"
Who borrow for their sign, "the Thistle,"—
They'd better take "the Pig-and-Whistle. "+

*The Scotch contributor to this work, who volunteered his services to the Literary Souvenir, with the promise of a favourable review in the Magazine if they were received, and who, by a trick, obtained admission to Mr. Bulwer's house, for the purpose of lampooning that gentleman, had better keep his tongue" from evil-speaking," if he would avoid the chastisement due to such offences, for the future!

+ The Pig-and-Whistle is a pot-house in St. Paul's ChurchYard, where these wags used, in former days, to hold their symposia. I am told, but cannot vouch for the fact, that at this cheap repository of wit and whiskey, the aspiring contributor may become as stupid as he pleases for a shilling, and as drunk as a lord for eighteen-pence, supper included. I lament to add, that the Orestes and Pylades mentioned in my text, are the only survivors of their illustrious association: they have outlasted

First of the train, see Crofton Croker,
That dull, inveterate, would-be joker;
I wish he'd take a friendly hint,
And when he next appears in print,
Would tell us how he came to claim,
And to the book prefix his name,—
Those Fairy Legends, terse and smart,
Of which he penned so small a part;
Wherefore he owned them all himself,
And gave his friends nor fame, nor pelf;
When this is done, 't will be my whim,
To pluck another crow with him.*

And, cheek-by-jowl, his brother twin,
In all but dulness, Pat Maginn;
Who though he write the LL.D.
After his name, will never be

A whit the graver than he is—
Less fond of drunken "deevilries;"
Less ready for a vulgar hoax;
Addicted less to pot-house jokes;
And all the rough, plebeian horse-play,

He will so oft without remorse play!

three several sets of their friends; and probably suggested the admirable series of papers in Blackwood, entitled "First and Last."

* The Authors of the Fairy Legends are some seven or eight in number; among them may be mentioned Messrs. Keithley, Humphries, Maginn, Lynch, and Mr. Crofton Croker.

Give him a glass or two of whiskey,
And in a trice he grows so frisky,
So full of frolic, fun, and satire,
So ready dirt around to scatter;
And so impartial in his blows,
They fall alike on friends and foes;
Nay, rather than his humour balk,
His mother's son he 'd tomahawk!
And so he can but set once more
His boon-companions "in a roar,"
Will scruple not, good-natured elf,
To libel his illustrious self!
A task so difficult, I own
It can be done by him alone!
And yet, to give the devil his due,
He'd neither slander me nor you,
From any abstract love of malice,
But only in his humorous sallies;
For of his friends he 'd lose the best,
Much rather than his vilest jest!

But for that booby by his side,
Regina's namesake, not her pride,*
That parasitic fish beneath

That picks its larger brethren's teeth;

Dines in some shark's pestiferous maw,

Sups on a whale's encumbered jaw;

* A namesake, but no connexion of the able and excellent author of "The Kuzzilbash," J. B. Fraser.

And prone in offal still to wallow,

Bolts what its patrons cannot swallow;
Even so, by garbage fed alone,

Too foul for even Maginn to own;
He builds his pyramid of fame
On ribald jests, without a name;
Sticks to the Standard-bearer's skirt,
And apes his knack of throwing dirt;
Steals his nick-names for every body,
Copies his taste in whiskey-toddy!
Retails his jokes with wondrous pains;
And borrows all things-but his brains!
Who ventured with the Ensign's backing,
To take the charge till sent a-packing,
Of Messrs. Treuttel's Foreign Quarterly;
Used Black and Co. so very martyrly;
Then kept the world on tenterhooks,
All waiting for a set of books,

Which they who seldom money stint,

Refused to pay for, or to print ;

*

And left, though they had given the order,
On hand, "in most admired disorder."

The Theban deep, who undertook

For C. and B. to write a book;

Which when the manuscript was sent,

Proved in the same predicament!

* Where are the Resumés of History, which Messrs. Whittaker announced from the pen of this gentleman?