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In Parliament I fill my seat,

With many other noodles ;
And lay my head in Jermyn Street

And sip my hock at Boodle's.
But often when the cares of life

Have sent my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife,

When duns await my waking,
When Lady Jane is in a pet,

Or Hoby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,

Or Beaulieu spoils a curry,–
For hours and hours I think and talk

Of each remembered hobby ;
I long to lounge in Poet's walk,

To shiver in the Lobby;
I wish that I could run away

From House, and Court, and Leveé, Where bearded men appear to-day

Just Eton boys grown heavy,

That I could bask in childhood's sun,

And dance o'er childhood's roses,
And find huge wealth in one pound one,

Vast wit in broken roses,
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,

And call the milk-maids Houris,
That I could be a boy again,-

A happy boy,-at Drury's.


“I PLAY a spade.-Such strange new faces

Are flocking in from near and far ; Such frights !-(Miss Dobbs holds all the aces) —

One can't imagine who they are: The lodgings at enormous prices,

New donkeys, and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices,

Although we're scarcely in July : We're quite as sociable as any,

But one old horse can scarcely crawl ; And really, where there are so many

We can't tell where we ought to call.

“Pray who has seen the odd old fellow

Who took the Doctor's house last week ?A pretty chariot,-livery yellow,

Almost as yellow as his cheek ; A widower, sixty-five, and surly,

And stiffer than a poplar tree; Drinks rum and water, gets up early

To dip his carcass in the sea;
He's always in a monstrous hurry,

And always talking of Bengal ;
They say his cook makes noble curry;

I think, Louisa, we should call.

“And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,

Has let her cottage on the hill ! The drollest man,-a sugar baker

Last year imported from the till ; Prates of his orses and his 'oney,

Is quite in love with fields and farms;

A horrid Vandal,—but his money

Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;

Some say he means to give a ball;
And after all, with thirteen daughters,

I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.

“ That poor young man !—I'm sure and certain

Despair is making up his shroud ; He walks all night beneath the curtain

Of the dim sky and murky cloud : Draws landscapes,—throws such mournful glances;

Writes verses, -has such splendid eyes; An ugly name, --but Laura fancies

He's some great person in disguise ! And since his dress is all the fashion,

And since he's very dark and tall, I think that out of pure compassion,

I'll get Papa to go and call.

“So Lord St. Ives is occupying

The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel !
Last Saturday his man was trying

A little nag I want to sell.
Ile brought a lady in the carriage ;

Blue eyes, -eighteen, or thereabouts ;--
Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage,

But yet the femme de chambre doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her,

Poor thing !-and such a charming shawl !-Well ! till we understand it better,

It's quite impossible to call ! "Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker,

Arrived to-day at Premium Court ;

I would not, for the world, cast anchor

In such a horrid dangerous port ; Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,

(Contractors play the meanest tricks),The roof's as crazy as its master,

And he was born in fifty-six ;
Stairs creaking-cracks in every landing-

The colonnade is sure to fall ;
We shan't find post or pillar standing

Unless we make great haste to call. “Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures

Last Sunday in the Rector's seat ?
The finest shape,- the loveliest features,-

I never saw such tiny feet !
My brother,-(this is quite between us)

Poor Arthur,—'twas a sad affair ;
Love at first sight she's quite a Venus,

But then she's poorer far than fair ; And so my father and my mother

Agreed it would not do at all ; And so, I'm sorry for my brother !

It's settled that we're not to call. “ And there's an author full of knowledge ;

And there's a captain on half-pay; And there's a baronet from college,

Who keeps a boy and rides a bay ; And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,

Fine specimen of brogue and bone ; And Dr. Calipel, the Canon,

Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone:
A maiden lady is adorning,

The faded front of Lily Hall :-
Upon my word, the first fine morning,

We'll make a round, my dear, and call." Alas ! disturb not, maid and matron,

The swallow in my humble thatch;
Your son may find a better patron,

Your niece may meet a better match :
I can't afford to give a dinner,

I never was on Almack's list; And since I seldom rise a winner,

I never like to play at whist; Unknown to me the stocks are falling,

Unwatched by me the glass may fall : Let all the world pursue its calling,

I'm not at home if people call.

“Rien n'est changé, mes amis !"-CHARLES X.
I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh,

And an infant's idle laughter;
The Old Year went with mourning by,

And the New came dancing after.
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,

Let Revelry hold her ladle !
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,

Fling roses on the cradle :
Mutes to wait on the funeral state !

Pages to pour the wine:
A requiem for Twenty-eight,

And a health to Twenty-nine !
Alas for human happiness!

Alas for human sorrow!
Our yesterday is nothingness, —.

What else will be our morrow?

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