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Then dwell not, Lily ! on an age

Of Fancy's wild creation,
Our own presents a fairer page

For Beauty's meditation ;
Though you share no Bois Guilbert's bed,

No Front de Boeuf's vagaries,
You may be comfortably wed

Some morning at St. Mary's!




“Marry come up! I can see as far into a wall as another !"


IF you'll tell me the reason why Lucy de Vere

Thinks no more of her silks, or her satins;
If you'll tell me the reason why, cloudy or clear,

She goes both to vespers and matins :
Then I think I can tell why young Harry de Vaux,

Who once cared for naught but his wine, has
Been seen, like a saint, for a fortnight or so,

In a niche, at St. Thomas Aquinas !

If you'll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will ride

As though he'd a witch on his crupper,
Whenever he hopes to join Rosalie's side,

Or is going to meet her at supper;
Then I think I can tell how it is that his groom,

With a horse that is better and faster,
Though the coaches make way, and the people make

Can never keep up with his master !

If you'll tell me the reason why Isabel's eyes

Śparkle brighter than Isabeľs rubies ;
If you'll tell me the reason why Isabel's sighs

Turn sensible men into boobies :
Then I think I can tell, -when she promised last night

To waltz, and my eye turned to thank hers, Why it was that my heart felt so wondrously light,

Though I hadn't a sou at my bankers !

If you'll tell me the reason a maiden must sigh

When she looks at a star or a planet;
If you'll tell me the reason she flings her book by,

When you know she has hardly began it;
If her cheek has grown pale, and if dim is her eye,

And her breathing both fevered and faint is,
Then think it exceedingly likely that I

Can tell what that maiden's complaint is!


“LHymen, dit-on, craint les petits Cousins.”—SCRIBE. Had you ever a Cousin, Tom ?

Did your Cousin happen to sing ? Sisters we've all by the dozen, Tom,

But a Cousin's a different thing ;
And you'd find, if you ever had kissed her, Tom,

(But let this be a secret between us,)
That your lips would have been a blister, Tom,

For they're not of the Sister genus.

There is something, Tom, in a Sister's lip,

When you give her a good-night kiss,

That savours so much of relationship

That nothing occurs amiss ;
But a Cousin's lip if you once unite

With yours, in the quietest way,
Instead of sleeping a week that night,

You'll be dreaming the following day.

And people think it no harm, Tom,

With a Cousin to hear you talk; And no one feels any alarm, Tom,

At a quiet, cousinly walk ;But, Tom, you'll soon find what I happen to know,

That such walks often grow into straying, And the voices of Cousins are sometimes so low,

Heaven only knows what you'll be saying!

And then there happen so often, Tom,

Soft pressures of hands and fingers,
And looks that were moulded to soften, Tom,

And tones on which memory lingers ;
That long ere the walk is half over, those strings

Of your heart are all put in play,
By the voice of those fair, demi-sisterly things,

In not quite the most brotherly way.

And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom,

Such tones as the angels woo,
But I fear if your Cousin should sing to you, Tom,

You'll take her for an angel, too;
For so curious a note is that note of theirs,

That you'll fancy the voice that gave it
Has been all the while singing the National Airs,

Instead of the Psalms of David.

I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom,

And her name may be nameless now,
But the sound of those songs is still young, Tom,

Though we are no longer so:
'Tis folly to dream of a bower of green

When there is not a leaf on the tree ;-
But 'twixt walking and singing, that Cousin has been,

God forgive her ! the ruin of me.

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And now I care nought for society, Tom,

And lead a most anchorite life,
For I've loved myself into sobriety, Tom,

And out of the wish for a wife;
But oh ! if I said but half what I might say,

So sad were the lesson 'twould give,
That 'twould keep you from loving for many a day;

And from Cousins-as long as you live.


I SAW one day, near Paphos' bowers,

In a glass-sweet Fancy's own-
A boy lie down among the flowers

That circled Beauty's throne.
Poor youth ! it moved my pity quite,

He looked so very sad ;-
Apollo said “his head was light,"

But Pallas called him “mad.”
A little sylphid, hiding near,

Flew out from some blue-bells,
And whispered in the pale youth's ear,

“Pray, try our Bagatelles !

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You've pondered over those musty books

Till half your locks are grey ;-
You've dimmed your eyes, you've spoiled your

You've worn yourself away!
Leave Wisdom's leaden page awhile,

And take your lute again,
And Beauty's eyes shall round you smile,

And Love's repay the strain :
Leave politics to dull M.P.'s,

Philosophy to cells,-
Good youth !-you'll ne'er succeed in these

So try our Bagatelles !
“We've cures in these enchanted bowers

For every sort of ill,
Our only medicines are flowers,

Sweet flowers that never kill !
Our leeches, too, are wondrous wise

In mixing simples up,-
We've frozen dew-drops from the skies

For the fevered lover's cup;
We've moonbeams gathered on the hills,

And star-drops in the dells;
Aud we never send you in our bills-

Pray, try our Bagatelles !

And youths from every court and clime

Come here to seek advice,
And maids who have misspent their time

Are kept preserved-in ice !
Bright fountains in our gardens play,

And each has magic in it, -
We cure blue devils every day,

Blue stockings every minute :

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