"Sweets to the sweet-farewell."-HAMLET.
IME was I liked a cheesecake well enough-
All human children have a sweetish taste:
I used to revel in a pie, or puff,
Or tart-we all were Tartars in our youth
To meet with jam or jelly was good luck,
All candies most complacently I crumped,
A stick of liquorice was good to suck,
And sugar was as often liked as lumped!
On treacle's "linkèd sweetness long drawn out,"
Or honey I could feast like any fly;
I thrilled when lollipops were hawked about;
How pleased to compass hard-bake or bull's-eye;
How charmed if Fortune in my power cast
Elecampane-but that campaign is past.
ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.
HEN little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They will not just be treated as they used to be at
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in ad
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.
Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief,
They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef,
With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock,
And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.
But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,
And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back;
And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,
For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.
1 The daughter of William Harvey, the artist.
Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,
But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble !) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!
What next?-to fill your head with French to match the native girls
In scraps of Galignani they'll screw up your little curls;
And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through
You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring;
That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.
No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!
But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!"
So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "Tant mi-eux!”
For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!
H, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul-but not Virginia's Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm'd withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;
Oh no! for thou wert never born
To watch the barren sea and cloud
In any desert isle forlorn-
Thy home is always in a crowd
Drawn nightly, such is thy stage luck,
By Liston-that dramatic Buck.
True as the evening's primrose flower,
True as the watchman to his beat,
Thou dost attend upon the hour
And house, in old Haymarket Street.
Oh, surely thou art much miscall'd,
Still Paul-yet we are never pall'd!
Friend of the keyhole and the crack,
That lets thee pry within and pore,
Thy very nose betrays the knack-
Upturn'd through kissing with the door;
A peeping trick that each dear friend
Sends thee to Coventry, to mend !
Thy bended body shows thy bent,
Inclined to news in every place;
Thy gossip mouth and eyes intent,
Stand each a query in thy face;
Thy hat a curious hat appears,
Pricking its brims up like thy ears;
Thy pace, it is an ambling trot,
To post thee sooner here and there,
To every house where thou shouldst not;
In gait, in garb, in face, and air,
The true eavesdropper we perceive,
Not merely dropping in at eve,-
But morn and noon, through all the span
Of day, to disconcert and fret,
Unwelcome guest to every man,
A kind of dun, without a debt,
Well cursed by porter in the hall,
For calling when there is no call.
Harm-watching, harm thou still dost catch-
That rule should save thee many a sore;
But watch thou wilt, and, like a watch,
A box attends thee at the door-
The household menials e'en begin
To show thee out ere thou art in!
Old Grasp regards thee with a frown,
Old Hardy marks thee for a shot,
Young Stanley longs to knock thee down,
And Subtle mourns her ruin'd plot,
And bans thy bones-alas! for why!
A tender curiosity!
Oh leave the Hardys to themselves——
Leave Mrs. Subtle to her dreams-
'Tis true that they were laid on shelves→
Leave Stanley, junior, to his schemes;
More things there are, the public sigh
To know the rights of, Mr. Pry!
There's Lady L- the late Miss P—,
and lady both were late,
And two in ten can scarce agree,
For why the title had to wait;
But thou mighst learn from her own lips
What wind detain'd the lady-ship?
Or Mr. P.-the sire that nursed
Thy youth, and made thee what thou art, Who form'd thy prying genius first—
(Thou wottest his untender part),
'Twould be a friendly call and fit,
To know "how soon he hopes to sit."
Some people long to know the truth
Whether Miss T. does mean to try
For Gibbon once again-in sooth,
Thou mightst indulge them, Mr. Pry;
A verbal extract from the brief
Would give some spinsters great relief!
Suppose, dear Pry, thou wert to dodge
The porter's glance, and just drop in
At Windsor's shy sequester'd lodge,
(Thou wilt, if any man can win
His way so far)—and kindly bring
Poor Cob's petition to the king.
There's Mrs. Coutts-hath she outgrown
The compass of a prying eye?
And, ah! there is the Great Unknown,
A man that makes the curious sigh;
'Twere worthy of your genius quite
To bring that lurking man to light.
O, come abroad, with curious hat,
And patch'd umbrella, curious tooTo poke with this, and pry with that
Search all our scandal through and through,
And treat the whole world like a pie
Made for thy finger, Mr. Pry!
WISH I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven miers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by means of Powers of Steam forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv
When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!
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