Or fall a tiger's prey,

Or steep in salt, it's all his fault,

I'm going to Bombay!

IX.

That fine new teak-built ship, the Fox

A. 1-Commander Bird,

Now lying in the London Docks,

Will sail on May the Third;

Apply for passage or for freight,

To Nichol, Scott, and Gray

Pa has applied and seal'd my fate-
I'm going to Bombay!

X.

My heart is full-my trunks as well;

My mind and caps made up,

My corsets shap'd by Mrs. Bell,

Are promised ere I sup;

With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best,

And dresses by Ducé,

And a special license in my chest

I'm going to Bombay!

JOHN JONES.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"I saw the iron enter into his soul."-STERNE.

OHN JONES he was a builder's clerk,
On ninety pounds a year,
Before his head was engine-turn'd
To be an engineer!

For, finding that the iron roads

Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart
Was set upon a rail.

But oh! his schemes all ended ill,

As schemes must come to nought,

With men who try to make short cuts, When cut with something short.

His altitudes he did not take,

Like any other elf;
But first a spirit-level took,

That levelled him, himself.

Then getting up, from left to right
So many tacks he made,
The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well survey'd.

How crows may fly he did not care
A single fig to know;—
He wish'd to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow.

So, going to the Rose and Crown,
To cut his studies short,
The nearest way from pint to pint,
He found was through a quart.

According to this rule he plann'd
His railroad o'er a cup;
But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up!

Alas! not his the wily arts
Of men as shrewd as rats,
Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot of flats!

In vain from Z to crooked S,
His devious line he show'd;
Directors even seemed to wish
For some directer road.

The writers of the public press
All sneered at his design;
And penny-a-liners wouldn't give
A penny for his line.

Yet still he urged his darling scheme,

In spite of all the fates; Until at last his zigzag ways

Quite brought him into straits.

His money gone, of course he sank
In debt from day to day,—
His way would not pay him—and so

He could not pay

his way.

Said he, "All parties run me down

How bitter is my cup!
My landlord is the only man

That ever runs me up!

"And he begins to talk of scores,

And will not draw a cork;"-
And then he rail'd at Fortune, since
He could not rail at York!

The morrow, in a fatal noose
They found him hanging fast;
This sentence scribbled on the wall,-
"I've got my line at last!"

Twelve men upon the body sate,
And thus, on oath, did say,
"We find he got his gruel, 'cause
He couldn't have his way!

POMPEY'S GHOST.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Skins may differ, but affection

Dweils in white and black the same."

COWPER

WAS twelve o'clock, not twelve at night,

But twelve o'clock at noon,

Because the sun was shining bright,

And not the silver moon:

A proper time for friends to call,

Or Pots, or Penny Post;