Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing-
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing-"
Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot-and kiss'd
The pearly whiteness of a Stephen's wrist-
Kissing and pitying-tender and humane!
"By heaven she loves me! Oh, it is too plain!"
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips!

Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well!
Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel-
Show them how thou hast long befriended them,
And teach Dubois their treason to condemn !
Go on! addressing pits in prose- and worse!
Be long, be slow, be anything but terse—
Kiss to the gallery the hand that's gloved-
Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,
Go on-and but in this reverse the thing,
Walk backward with wax lights before the King→
Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on!
Hope's favourite child! ethereal Elliston !

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepared."- MACHEATH.

F I shoot any more I'll be shot,
For ill-luck seems determined to star me,
I have march'd the whole day
With a gun--for no pay-
Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave?
To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!
With confidence fraught,

My two pointers I brought,

But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice!
Of my course he has been a nice chalker,

Not far, were his words,

I could go without birds:

If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,

My appointments are modern and Mantony,
And I've brought my own man,

To mark down all he can,

But I can't find a mark for my Antony!

The partridges, where can they lie?
I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,
As the least I could do;

But without even two

To brace me,-I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants-how well they're preserved! My sport's not a jot more beholden,

As the birds are so shy,

For my friends I must buy;

And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare,

Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,

With toil unrelax'd,

Till my patience is tax'd,

But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats

In the hope of a snipe for a snap at;
But still vainly I court

The percussioning sport,

I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock, this month is the time,—
Right and left I've made ready my lock for,
With well-loaded double,

But spite of my trouble,

Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise,

But they lurk in their burrows so lowly;

This day's the eleventh,

It is not the seventh,

But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh,

And haunted each pool, and each lake-oh!
Mine is not the luck,

To obtain thee, O Duck,

Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field,
Large or small I am never to sack bird,
Not a thrush is so kind

As to fly, and I find

I may whistle myself for a blackbird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry,
Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,
And so weary an elf,

I am sick of myself,

And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's,
And look out for a cock or a hen there;
I have search'd round and round
All the Baronet's ground,

But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps,
But for nightcaps they set me desiring,

And it's really too bad,

Not a shot I have had

With Hall's Powder, renown'd for “quick firing.”

· If this is what people call sport,

Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense,
And there still remains one

More mischance on my gun

“Fined for shooting without any license.”

THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."

IN Brentford town, of old renown,

There lived a Mister Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allow'd,

Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love;
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

"So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—
I'll pop it into you."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,

"Your threats I quite explode; One who has been a volunteer Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,

I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's."

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;

But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend a-piece,
This pleasant thought to give-

When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,

And having taken one rash step

They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,

But when they took their stands, Fear made them tremble so they found They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

"Here one of us may fall,

And like St. Paul's Cathedral now,

Be doom'd to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach

Misconduct to your name;

If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?"

Said Mr. B., "I do agree

But think of Honour's Courts!

If we go off without a shot,

There will be strange reports.

"But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above, as if

We had call'd out the sun?"