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Where are you, old companions trusty

Of early days here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces,

My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places,

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage ;

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage ; There's

poor old fred in the Gazette; On JAMES's head the grass is growing:

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing,

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting !

I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,

In this same place—but not alone.
A sair young form was nestled near me,

A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me

-There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it

In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;

And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. -Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse !

William Makepeace Thackeray.


I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss,

Her hand that trembled and withdrew; She bent her head before my kiss,

My heart was sure that hers was true.

Now I have told her I must part,

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! Hers never was the heart for you.

Walter Savage Landor.


You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,

By every word and smile deceived. Another man would hope no more ;

Nor hope I what I hoped before : But let not this last wish be vain ; Deceive, deceive me once again !

Walter Savage Landor.



From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass

Like litile ripples down a sunny river ;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blythe as ever.

Walter Savage Landor.


Oh, the days were ever shiny

When I ran to meet my love ;
When I press’d her hand so tiny

Through her tiny tiny glove.
Was I very deeply smitten?

Oh, I loved like anything!
But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic,

And she loved my little rhymes ;
For our tastes were sympathetic,

In the old and happy times.

Oh, the ballads I have written,

And have taught my love to sing !
But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.
Would she listen to my offer,

On my knees I would impart
A sincere and ready proffer

Of my hand and of my heart.
And below her dainty mitten

I would fix a wedding ring-
But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.
Take a warning, happy lover,

From the moral that I show;
Or too late you may discover

What I learn'd a month ago.
We are scratch'd or we are bitten

By the pets to whom we cling.
Oh, my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

Henry S. Leigh.





Fair maid, hal I not heard thy baby cries,
Nor seen thy girlish sweet vicissitude,
Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,
Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes,-
Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes,
And lovely all : methinks thy scornsul mood
And bearing high of stately womanhood,
Thy brow where Beauty sits to tyrannize
O'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;
For never sure was seen a Royal Bride,
Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride.
My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee :
But when I see thee at thy father's side,
Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.

Hartley Coleridge.



Thou who, when sears attack,
Bidst them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back

Perching, unseatest ;
Sweet when the morn is gray;
Sweet, when they've cleared away
Lunch ; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know, are told,

Not to thy credit ;
How one (or two at most)
Drops make a cat a ghost-
Useless, except to roast-

Doctors have said it :

How they who use fusees
All grow by slow degrees
Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;
Go mad, and beat their wives;
Plunge (after shocking lives)
Razors and carving knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks !
Yet know I five or six
Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbours ;
Jones—(who, I'm glad to say,
Asked leave of Mrs. J.-)
Daily absorbs a clay

After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco-juice ;
Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken ?

We're not as tabbies are :
Smith, take a fresh cigar !
Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon !

C. S. Calverley


Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers

Would swell, not soothe their pain ;
Ah, if she look but at these tears,
They do not fall in vain.

Walter Savage Landor.



And are those eyes, so clear, so mild,

Only to shine upon a wild, And be reflected in a shallow well ?

Ah! who can tell ?

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If she grows tamer, who shall pat

Her neck ? who wreathe the flowers around ?

Who give the name ? who pace the ground ? Pondering these things a grave old Dervish sat,

And sigh’d, Ah! who can tell ?

Walter Savage Landor.



CHRISTMAS is here :
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we:
Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.

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