WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION?

WHAT

HAT is London's last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can;

Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an Ota

heite man?

For my conversazione you must send me something new,

Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the eclat of a debut!

I am sick of all the "minstrels," all the "brothers" this and that,

Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat;

And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé, I

suppose

So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his

nose.

Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout,

I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out!

Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,

But do not send a poet, till you find one with two

heads.

The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a

straw

For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw!

And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them

soon,

Unless you send me some one who has travell❜d to the moon.

Oh, if you send a singer, he must sing without a throat!

Oh, if you send a player, he must harp upon one note!

I must have something marvellous, the marvel makes the man;

What is London's last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can.

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

I'

I'D BE A BUTTERFLY

'D be a Butterfly born in a bower,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet!
I'd never languish for wealth, or for power
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet:
I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer days' ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.

Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary; Power, alas! nought but misery brings!

I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings!

What, though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day: Surely 'tis better when summer is over

To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay

I'd be a Butterfly; living, a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away!

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

"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.

I'm very sick of Grosv'nor Square,
The path within the rails;
I'm weary of Telemachus,

And such outlandish tales:

I hate my French, my vile Chambaud;
In tears I've turn'd his leaves;
Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,

And take to Gigot sleeves.

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

I know quite well what I should say
To partners at a ball;

I've got a pretty speech or two,
And they would serve for all.
If an Hussar, I'd praise his horse,
And win a smile from him;
And if a Naval man, I'd lisp,
"Pray, Captain, do you swim?"

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

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

"WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?"

WHY

HY don't the men propose, mamma?
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!

It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That everybody knows;

You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh, they won't propose!

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons
I'm ever on the watch:

I've hopes when some distingué beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt, Alas, he won't propose!

I've tried to win by languishing,

And dressing like a blue;

I've bought big books, and talk'd of them,
As if I read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh, they won't propose!