For though I say it as oughtn't, yet I will say, you may search for miles and mileses

And not find one better brought up, and more pretty behaved, from one end to t'other of St. Giles's.

And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a Mother ought to speak;

You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it hasn't been washed for a week;

As for hair, tho' its red, its the most nicest hair

when I've time to just show it the comb; I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides,

as will only bring him safe and sound home. He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though a little cast he 's certainly got ; And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot; He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age; And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage. And then he has got such dear winning ways

but I never never shall see him no more! O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!

Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too

many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.— It's no use to send the Cryer to cry him about,

he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child,

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers!

I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters

and Brothers.

Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what

not,

And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly 's red hot.

Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his

face.

For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place.

I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and wouldn't I hug him and kiss him!

Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was

but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as

sin!

But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

AN ANCIENT CONCERT.

BY A VENERABLE DIRECTOR.

"Give me old music-let me hear

The songs of days gone by!"-H. F. CHORLEY.

O! COME, all ye who love to hear
An ancient song in ancient taste,

To whom all bygone Music 's dear
As verdant spots in Memory's waste!
Its name "The Ancient Concert" wrongs,
And has not hit the proper clef,

To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs,
To Old Subscribers rather deaf.

Away, then, Hawes ! with all your band.
Ye beardless boys, this room desert!
One youthful voice, or youthful hand,
Our concert-pitch would disconcert!

No Bird must join our "vocal throng,"
The present age beheld at font:

Away, then, all ye "Sons of Song,"
Your Fathers are the men we want!

Away, Miss Birch, you're in your prime !
Miss Romer, seek some other door!
Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time,
You count you're nearly fifty-four!
Go, Miss Novello, sadly young!
Go, thou composing Chevalier,
And roam the county towns among,
No Newcome will be welcome here!

Our Concert aims to give at night
The music that has had its day!
So, Rooke, for us you cannot write
Till time has made you Raven gray.
Your score may charm a modern ear,
Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old,
But in this Ancient atmosphere,

Fresh airs like yours would give us cold!

Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go!
Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls
And Master Coward ought to know
This is no place for boys and girls!
No Massons here we wish to see;
Nor is it Mrs. Seguin's sphere,

And Mrs. B! Oh! Mrs. B-
Such Bishops are not reverend here!

What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus!
To sing the songs gone gray with age!
No, Grisi, no,- but come to us

And welcome, when you leave the stage!
Off, Ivanhoff!- till weak and harsh!
Rubini, hence! with all the clan !

But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache A little shrivelled thin old man.

Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please!
Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch;
You'd run us out of breath with Glees,
And Catches that we could not catch.
Away, ye Leaders all, who lead
With violins, quite modern things;
To guide our Ancient band we need
Old fiddles out of leading strings!

But come, ye Songsters, overripe,
That into "childish trebles break!
And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe
That cannot sing without a shake!
Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin
A slender thread of ancient. voice,
Old notes that almost seem called in;
At such as you we shall rejoice!