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They tell me you've many who flatter, .

Because of your wit and your song : They tell me—and what does it matter?

You like to be praised by the throng : They tell me you're shadowed with laurel :

They tell me you're loved by a Blue: They tell me you're sadly immoral

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me, you are still what I found you,

Before you grew clever and tall ; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you ; And you'll come-won't you come ?-to our

Ball!

II.

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

-"Sweet, when actors first appear, The loud collision of applauding gloves.".

-MOULTRIE. Your labours, my talented brother,

Are happily over at last:
They tell me—that, somehow or other,

The Bill is rejected,—or passed;
And now you'll be coming, I'm certain,

As fast as your posters can crawl,
To help us to draw up our curtain,

As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements are nearly completed ;

But still we've a Lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated

We'd keep, at all hazards, for you:

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Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;

Lord John is a trifle too tall ;
And yours are the safest embraces

To faint in, at Fustian Hall.
Come, Clarence ;-its really enchanting

To listen and look at the rout :
We're all of us puffing and panting,

And raving, and running about;
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle ;

There Andrew and Anthony bawl ;
Flutes murmur-chains rattle-robes rustle

In chorus, at Fustian Hall.
By-the-by, there are two or three matters

We want you to bring us from town :
The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's,

A nose and a hump for the clown;
We want a few harps for our banquet,

We want a few masks for our ball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet

His white wig, for Fustian Hall !
Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;

Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl ;
And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber

For want of a lizard and owl :
And then, for our funeral procession,

Pray get us a love of a pall,
Or how shall we make an impression

On feelings, at Fustian Hall ?
And, Clarence, you'll really delight us,

If you'll do your endeavour to bring,
From the Club, a young person to write us

Our prologue, and that sort of thing ;

Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,

Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely

This season, at Fustian Hall.
Come, Clarence ! your idol Albina

Will make a sensation, I feel ; We all think there never was seen a

Performer so like the O'Neill:
At rehearsals, her exquisite fury

Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,

There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall !
Dread objects are scattered before her

On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,

At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. The sword never seems to alarm her

That hangs on a peg to the wall ; And she doats on thy rusty old armour,

Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,

(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath !)And trampled, in anger and scorning,

A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark !—I've a part in “The Stranger," —

There's the Prompter's detestable cail !" Come, Clarence-our Romeo and Ranger

We want you at Fustian Hall !

SONG.

Tell him I love him yet,

As in that joyous time; Tell him I ne'er forget,

Though memory now be crime; Tell him, when sad moonlight

Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,-

He must not dream of me !

Tell him to go where Fame

Looks proudly on the brave; Tell him to win a name

By deeds on land and wave; Green-green upon his brow

The laurel wreath shall be ; Although the laurel now

May not be shared with me.

Tell him to smile again

In Pleasure's dazzling throng, To wear another's chain,

To praise another's song. Before the loveliest there

I'd have him bend his knee, And breathe to her the prayer

He used to breathe to me.

And tell hin, day by day,

Life looks to me more dim; I falter when I pray,

Although I pray for him.

And bid him when I die,

Come to our favourite tree;
I shall not hear him sigh,-

Then let him sigh for me!

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CONFESSIONS.
From the Manuscript of a Sexagenarian.
In youth, when pen and fingers first

Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek 'em,
Ere luring hope's gay bubbles burst,

Or Chitty was my vade mecum,
Ere years had charactered my brow

With the deep lines, that well become it,
Or told me that warm hearts could grow

Cold as Mont Blanc's snow-covered summit-
When my slow step and solemn swing

Were steadier and somewhat brisker,
When velvet collars were “the thing,"

And long before I wore a whisker,
Ere I had measured six foot two,

Or bought Havannas by the dozen,
I fell in love-as many do-

She was an angel-hem—my cousin.
Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance

Cast back on memory's shorthand record,
I wonder---if by any chance

Life's future page will be so checkered !
My angel cousin ! ah ! her form--

Her lofty brow_her curls of raven,
Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,

Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.

A

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