The mly apankle

in this pome

(Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us) For Helio-gobble-us !"

"There were a feast for Alexander's Feast!
The real sort-none of your mock or spurious!
And then he mention'd Aldermen deceased,
And "Epicurius,"

And how Tertullian had enjoy'd such foison;
And speculated on that verdigrease

That isn't poison.

"Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that!
Give me green fat!

As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles
And billing turtles,

Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there,
A-billing in a bill of fare!"

"Of all the things I ever swallow

Good, well-dressed turtle beats them hollow-
It almost makes me wish, I vow,

To have two stomachs, like a cow!"
And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill
Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb'd his frill,
His mouth was oozing and he work'd his jaw-
"I almost think that I could eat one raw!"

And thus, as "inward love breeds outward talk,"
The portly pair continued to discourse;
And then-as Gray describes of life's divorce-
With "longing lingering look" prepared to walk,—
Having thro' one delighted sense, at least,

Enjoy'd a sort of Barmecidal feast,

And with prophetic gestures, strange to see,
Forestall'd the civic Banquet yet to be,
Its callipash and callipee!

A pleasant prospect-but alack!
Scarcely each Alderman had turn'd his back,
When seizing on the moment so propitious,
And having learn'd that they were so delicious

To bite and sup,

From praises so high flown and injudicious,—
And nothing could be more pernicious!
The turtles fell to work, and ate each other up!

MORAL.

Never, from folly or urbanity,

Praise people thus profusely to their faces,

Till quite in love with their own graces,
They're eaten up by vanity!

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

AN ODE.

[Capital idea,

out

by

! WELL may poets make a fuss X
In summer time, and sigh “O rus!”

Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest

In greenwood shades-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick !

What joy have I in June's return?

My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn,

I scent no flowery gust:

But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me "dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no Eastern dews;

The path is dry and hot!

His setting shows more tamely still,

He sinks behind no purple hill,
But down a chimney's pot!

O! but to hear the milkmaid blithe,
Or early mower wet his scythe

The dewy meads among !

My grass is of that sort, alas!

That makes no hay-called sparrow-grass

By folks of vulgar tongue!

well worked the Allailer.]

* Rus-tic

very! likely,

Ruble?

Key

city life.

1

Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,

That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
The Arcadian herdsman used to play
Sweetly, here soundeth not;

But merely breathes unwholesome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes
The rank weed-"piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd,

With objects hard to bear:

Shades-vernal shades !—where wine is sold!

And, for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers.
And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?

Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more.
See Hatton's Gardens bricked all o'er,
And that bare wood-St. John's.

No pastoral scenes procure me peace;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees :

No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And Omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers-not with bees.

O! well may poets make a fuss 入
In summer time, and sigh "O rus!"

Of city pleasures sick :

My heart is all at pant to rest

In greenwood shades--my eyes detest

it.

That endless meal of brick!

NO!

No sun-no moon!

No morn-no noon

No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day-
No sky-no earthly view-

No distance looking blue

No road-no street-no "t'other side the way"—
No end to any Row-

No indications where the Crescents go

No top to any steeple

No recognitions of familiar people

No courtesies for showing 'em

No knowing 'em !—

No travelling at all-no locomotion,
No inkling of the way-no notion-

"No go"-by land or ocean

No mail-no post

No news from any foreign coast

No Park-no Ring-no afternoon gentility-
No company-no nobility—

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member-

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,-
November! x

NE day, as I was going by

That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chill'd my very blood;

And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub'd with grease and mud.

to just red hair. But cut this st-tip it. wil

reading.