I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferr'd
A simple sort of Miss;

And so I lisp'd out naught beyond
Plain "yeses" or plain "noes,'
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh, they won't propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, “Now, I propose again-
I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,
I blush'd like any rose;

But, oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose!

And what is to be done, mamma ?

Oh, what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,

For I am thirty-one.

At balls, I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why won't the men propose, mamma ?

Why won't the men propose?

Thomas Haynes Bayly.

66

"O

ASK AND HAVE

H, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;

"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry who marry,
At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I;

"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

"For my father he loves me so dearly,

He'll never consent I should goIf you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say, 'No.""

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel? Sweet Mary," says I;

"If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!"

"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
A way now to save you I see;

Since my parents are both so contrary—
You'd better ask me!"

Samuel Lover.

LINES IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM

A

PRETTY task, Miss S-, to ask
A Benedictine pen,

That cannot quite at freedom write
Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my Muse must paint
To fill this page's span,
But be correct and recollect
I'm not a single man.

Pray only think for pen and ink
How hard to get along,

That may not turn on words that burn,

Or Love, the life of song!

Nine Muses, if I chooses, I

May woo all in a clan,

But one Miss S- I daren't address-
I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head.
May eke it out with heart,
And in their lays it often plays

A rare first-fiddle part:

They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss,

But if I so began,

I have my fears about my ears

I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak,
Nor on your lip be warm,

I must be wise about your eyes,
And formal with your form;
Of all that sort of thing, in short,
On T. H. Bayly's plan,

I must not twine a single line-
I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart
To keep you off its beat,

And I might dare as soon to swear
At you as at your feet.

I can't expire in passion's fire,

As other poets can

My wife (she's by) won't let me die

I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove,
Forbidden bow and dart,
Without a groan to call my own,
With neither hand nor heart,
To Hymen vowed, and not allowed
To flirt e'en with your fan,

Here end, as just a friend, I must-
I'm not a single man.

Thomas Hood.

THE TIME OF ROSES

T was not in the winter

IT

Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,-

We plucked them as we passed.

That churlish season never frowned
On earthly lovers yet:

Oh, no! the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,-

We plucked them as we passed.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud?

And when I asked the like of Love,
You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last.

It was the time of roses,-
We plucked them as we passed.

Thomas Hood.