My trousers were supremely wide,

I learnt to swear "by Allah!" I stuck a poniard by my side,

And called myself " Abdallah.”

Oh, a fancy ball's a strange affair!
Made up of silk and leathers,

Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,
Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:

The dullest duke in all the town,
To-day may shine a droll one;
And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,
Look royal in a whole one.

Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,
The schoolboy from his Latin;
Be stoics here in ecstasies,

And savages in satin;

Let young and old forego-forget
Their labour and their sorrow,
And none except the Cabinet—
Take counsel for the morrow.

Begone, dull care! This life of ours
Is very dark and chilly;

We'll sleep through all its serious hours,
And laugh through all its silly.
Be mine such motley scene as this,
Where, by established usance,

Miss Gravity is quite amiss,

And Madam Sense a nuisance!

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met
All tongues and times and faces,

The Lancers flirt with Juliet,

The Brahmin talks of races;

And where's your genuis, bright Corinne ?
And where's your brogue, Sir Lucius?
And Chinca Ti, you have not seen
One chapter of Confucius.

Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirt
With Beauties from the Wrekin;
And belles from Berne look very pert
On Mandarins from Pekin;
The Cardinal is here from Rome,

The Commandant from Seville;
And Hamlet's father from the tomb,
And Faustus from the Devil.

O sweet Anne Page !-those dancing eyes
Have peril in their splendour !
"O sweet Anne Page !"-so Slender sighs,
And what am I, but slender?
Alas! when next your spells engage
So fond and starved a sinner,

My pretty Page, be Shakespeare's Page,
And ask the fool to dinner!

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,
What mean they, nun or fairy?

I guess they told no beads to-day,
And sang no Ave Mary:

From mass and matins, priest and pyx,
Barred door, and window grated,

I wish all pretty Catholics
Were thus emancipated !

Four seasons come to dance quadrilles
With four well-seasoned sailors;
And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills
With Timon, prince of railers;

I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park
Equipt for a walk to Mecca ;
And I run away from Joan of Arc,
To romp with sad Rebecca.

Fair Cleopatra's very plain;

Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;
And Cæsar's murdered o'er again,
Though not by Roman daggers:
Great Charlemagne is four feet high;
Sad stuff has Bacon spoken ¡
Queen Mary's waist is all awry,
And Psyche's nose is broken.

Our happiest bride-how very odd !—
Is the mourning Isabella;
And the heaviest foot that ever trod
Is the foot of Cinderella;

Here sad Calista laughs outright,

There Yorick looks most grave, sir, And a Templar waves the cross to-night, Who never crossed the wave, sir!

And what a Babel is the talk!

"The Giraffe "- 66 plays the fiddle "Macadam's roads"-"I hate this chalk !

"Sweet girl "

"I'm nearly drunk with

-" Epsom salts

"

“Yes, separate beds ”- such cronies!" "Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?". "A pair of Shetland ponies."

"Lord Nugent"

an enchanting shape' "Will move for ". "Maraschino ""

Pray, Julia, how's your mother's аре ?"

"He died at Navarino !

"The gout, by Jove, is "-"apple pie "
"Don Miguel "-"Tom the tinker
"His Lordship's pedigree's as high

As "-"Whipcord, dam by Clinker."

"Love's shafts are weak "- "" my chestnut kicks". "Heart-broken "broke the traces

"What say you now of politics?"

-

Change hands and to your places.' "A five-barred gate _66 a precious pearl "Grave things may all be punned on!

"The Whigs, thank Heaven, are"-"out of curl !”— "Her age is". -"four by London!"

Thus run the giddy hours away,
The morning's light is beaming,
And we must go to dream by day
All we to-night are dreaming,—

To smile and sigh, to love and change :
Oh, in our hearts' recesses,

We dress in fancies quite as strange
As these our fancy dresses!

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

(From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London.)

"Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable
Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer "

You tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek?

-SCRIBE.

Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say "No!

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,

Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;

I wear it wherever I go;

gave you a chain,-is it broken?
My own Araminta, say
"No!"

O think of our favourite cottage,

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,

And drank of the stream from the brook;

How fondly our loving lips faltered

"What further can grandeur bestow?"
My heart is the same ;-is yours altered?
My own Araminta, say
"No!"

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen ;
Remember the suitors our fancies

Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe-
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ?

My own Araminta, say No!"

You know when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your cousin Justine,

You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,

And whispered, How base she has been!"