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Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught,
And caged him there forever;
Instructing thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
'Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply—
May all who hear, like Susan smile,
Ah! not like Cloe sigh!

SA L.A. D.

To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat!
'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day !


R. HArtris BARHAM. “Litera scripta manet.”—OLD SAw.

ANothER mizzling, drizzling day !
Of clearing up there's no appearance;

So I'll sit down without delay,
And here, at least, I'll make a clearance 1

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No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,
And popp'd their toes upon the fender,

And drank a quiet cup of tea:
On days like this one can't be tender.

So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
And put my desk upon the table—

Bring that portfolio–stir the fire—
Now off as fast as you are able!

First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,
“A ball !”—she knows that I'm no dancer—

That woman's ask'd me fifty times,
And yet I never send an answer.

Just lend me twenty pounds,
Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
Yours truly,
HENRY Gibbs.”
Why Z–ds !
I've seen the man but twice—here, burn it.

One from my cousin Sophy Daw—
Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;

“The cat has kitten’d ‘in the draw,'
And ruin'd two bran-new silk dresses."

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“This morning Mrs. P-
Who's doing quite as well as may be,
Presented me at half past three
Precisely, with another baby.

“We'll name it John, and know with pleasure
You'll stand”—Five guineas more, confound it!—

I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,
Or thrown it in the Thames and drown'd it.

What have we next 2 A civil dun :
“John Brown would take it as a favor"—

Another, and a surlier one,
“I can't put up with sich behavior."

“Bill so long standing,”—“quite tired out,"—
“Must sit down to insist on payment,”

“Called ten times,”—Here's a fuss about
A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment!

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This from my rich old Uncle Ned,
Thanking me for my annual present;

And saying he last Tuesday wed
His cook-maid, Molly—vastly pleasant!

An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,
Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;
Another from that precious fool,

Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.

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A note sent up from Kent to show me,
Left with my bailiff, Peter King;
“I’ll burn them precious stacks down, blow me !
“Yours most sincerely,
“CAPTAIN Swing."

Four begging letters with petitions,
One from my sister Jane, to pray

I'll execute a few commissions” -
In Bond-street, “when I go that way.”

“And buy at Pearsall's in the city
Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:

Color no matter, so it's pretty;-
Two hundred pens"—two hundred curses 1

From Mistress Jones: “My little Billy
Goes up his schooling to begin,

Will you just step to Piccadilly,
And meet him when the coach comes in 7

“And then, perhaps, you will as well, see
The poor dear fellow safe to school

At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea 1"
Heaven send he slog the little fool!

From Lady Snooks: “Dear Sir, you know
You promised me last week a Rebus;

A something smart and apropos,
For my new Album ?”—Aid me, Phoebus !

“My first is follow'd by my second;
Yet should my first my second see,

A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,
And sadly shock'd my first would be.

“Were I but what my whole implies,
And pass'd by chance across your portal:

You'd cry ‘Can I believe my eyes?
I never saw so queer a mortal!'

“For then my head would not be on,
My arms their shoulders must abandon;

My very body would be gone,
I should not have a leg to stand on.”

Come that's dispatch'd—what follows?—Stay
“Reform demanded by the nation;

Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!” Ay,
By Jove a blessed Reformation /

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Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind—'twas a little one then—

We carved her initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.

Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, ’tis grown all askew;

And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.

This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov'd patronymic—ah I can it be so *

Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing;
A D?—we'll be Deed if it isn't an Ol

Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
That thus on our labors stern Chronos should frown;

Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!

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