That should be Brother unto Brother,-
Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns?
But still if one must have a Mayor

To fill the Civic chair,

O Lud, I say,

Was there no better day

To fix on, than November Ninth so shivery
And dull for showing off the Livery's livery?
Dimming, alas!

The Brazier's brass,

Soiling th' Embroiderers and all the Saddlers,
Sopping the Furriers,

Draggling the Curriers,

And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers:
Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin,
Making the crusty Vintner chiller,

And turning the Distiller

To cold without instead of warm within;-
Spoiling the bran-new beavers

Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers,

Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers, Hearty November-cursers

And showing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers

Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers;

Making the Grocer's company not fit

For Company a bit;

Dying the Dyers with a dingy flood,
Daubing incorporated Bakers,

And leading the Patten-makers,
Over their very pattens in the mud,—
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!

"This is a sorry sight,"

To quote Macbeth—but oh, it grieves me quite
To see your Wives and Daughters in their plumes-
White plumes not white-

Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
Not "Angels ever bright and fair,”
But angels ever brown and sallow,

With eyes you cannot see above one pair,

For city clouds of black and yellow

And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud,
Such sable lilies

And grim daffodilies

Drooping, but not for drought, O Lud! O Lud!

I may as well, while I'm inclined,
Just go through all the faults I find :

O Lud! then, with a bitter air, say June,
Could'st thou not find a better tune
To sound with trumpets, and with drums,
Than "See the Conquering Hero comes,"
When he who comes ne'er dealt in blood?
Thy May'r is not a War Horse, Lud,
That ever charged on Turk or Tartar,
And yet upon a march you strike
That treats him like-

A little French if I may martyr—
Lewis Cart-Horse or Henry Carter !
O Lud! I say

Do change your day

To some time when your Show can really show;
When silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow.

Look at your Sweepers, how they shine in May Have it when there's a sun to gild the coach, And sparkle in tiara-bracelet-broochDiamond-or paste—of sister, mother, daughter; When grandeur really may be grand—

But if thy Pageant's thus obscured by land-
O Lud! it's ten times worse upon the water!
Suppose, O Lud, to show its plan,

I call, like Blue Beard's wife, to sister Anne,
Who's gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt
To see what she can see-and what she can't;

Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud,

To keep the fog out of a tender lung,
While perch'd in a verandah nicely hung
Over a margin of thy own black mud,
O Lud!

Now Sister Anne, I call to thee,
Look out and see:

Of course about the bridge you view them rally
And sally,

With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter;
The Fishmongers' grand boat, but not for butter,
The Goldsmiths' glorious galley,—

Of course you see the Lord Mayor's coach aquatic,
With silken banners that the breezes fan,
In gold all glowing,

And men in scarlet rowing,

Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic;

Of course you see all this, O Sister Anne?
"No, I see no such thing!

I only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf,
With two coal lighters fasten'd to a ring:
And, dim as ghosts,

Two little boys are jumping over posts;
And something farther off,

That's rather like the shadow of a dog,
And all beyond is fog.

If there be any thing so fine and bright,
To see it I must see by second sight.
Call this a Show? It is not worth a pin!
I see no barges row,

No banners blow;

The show is merely a gallanty-show,
Without a lamp or any candle in."

But sister Anne, my dear,

Although you cannot see, you still may hear?

Of course you hear, I'm very sure of that,

The "Water parted from the Sea" in C,

Or "Where the Bee sucks," set in B;

Or Huntsman's chorus from the Freyschutz frightful, Or Handel's Water Music in A flat.

Oh music from the water comes delightful!

It sounds as no where else it can:

You hear it first,

In some rich burst,
Then faintly sighing,

Tenderly dying

Away upon the breezes, Sister Anne.

"There is no breeze to die on;

And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps,
Could never cut their way with ev'n three sharps
Through such a fog as this, you may rely on.
I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum,

Like a very muffled double drum,

And then a something faintly shrill,

Like Bartlemy Fair's old buz at Pentonville.
And now and then hear a pop,

As if from Pedley's Soda Water shop.

I'm almost ill with the strong scent of mud,
And, not to mention sneezing,

My cough is, more than usual, teasing;
I really fear that I have chill'd my blood,
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!”

ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE

A

BY DORCAS DOVE.

ND is it thus ye welcome Peace,

From Mouths of forty-pounding Bores?
Oh cease, exploding Cannons, cease!
Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores!

Not so the quiet Queen should come;
But like a Nurse to still our Fears,
With Shoes of List, demurely dumb,
And Wool or Cotton in her Ears!

She asks for no triumphal Arch;

No Steeples for their ropy Tongues;

Down, Drumsticks, down, She needs no March
Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs.

She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats
To tell that She is drawing nigh:

Why this Parade of scarlet Coats,

When War has closed his bloodshot Eye?

Returning to Domestic Loves,

When War has ceased with all its Ills,
Captains should come like sucking Doves,
With Olive Branches in their Bills.

No need there is of vulgar Shout,

Bells, Cannons, Trumpets, Fife, and Drum,
And Soldiers marching all about,

To let us know that Peace is come.

Oh mild should be the Signs and meek,
Sweet Peace's Advent to proclaim!
Silence her noiseless Foot should speak,
And Echo should repeat the same.

Lo! where the Soldier walks, alas!

With Scars received on Foreign Grounds;

Shall we consume in Coloured Glass

The Oil that should be pour'd in Wounds?

The bleeding Gaps of War to close,
Will whizzing Rocket-Flight avail?
Will Squibs enliven Orphans' Woes?
Or Crackers cheer the Widow's Tale?

TO MR. ISAAK WALTON,

AT MR. MAJOR'S THE BOOKSELLER'S IN FLEET STREET.

M

R. WALTON, it's harsh to say it, but as a Parent I can't help wishing

You'd been hung before you publish'd your book, to

set all the young people a fishing!

There's my Robert, the trouble I've had with him it surpasses a

mortal's bearing,

And all thro' those devilish angling works-the Lord forgive me

for swearing!