I know not how it chances,

When my passion ever dares, But the warmer my advances, Then the cooler are your airs.

I am, I don't conceal it,

But I am a little hurt;

You're a Fan, and I must feel it,
Fit for nothing but a Flirt !

I dreamt thy smiles of beauty
On myself alone did fall;
But alas!" Cosi Fan Tutti!

It is thus, Fan, thus will all!

You have taken quite a mob in
Of new military flames;

They would make a fine Round Robin
If I gave you all their names!

STANZAS.

WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.

ALAS! of all the noxious things

That wait upon the poor,

Most cruel is that Felon-Fear

That haunts the "Debtor's Door!"

Saint Sepulchre's begins to toll,

The Sheriffs seek the cell :

So I expect their officers,

And tremble at the bell!

I look for beer, and yet I quake
With fright at every tap ;
And dread a double-knock, for oh!

I've not a single rap!

FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY
WATCH.

"Aurum pot-a-bile :" Gold biles the pot. - FREE TRANS

LATION.

FAREWELL then, my golden repeater,
We're come to my Uncle's old shop;
And hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!

To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;
But oh! there's a riot internal,

And Famine calls out for the Watch!

Oh! hunger's a terrible trial,

I really must have a relief,—
So here goes the plate of your dial
To fetch me some Williams's beef!

As famished as any lost seaman,
I've fasted for many a dawn,

And now must play chess with the Demon,
And give it a check with a pawn.

I've fasted, since dining at Buncle's,
Two days with true Perceval zeal
And now must make up at my Uncle's,
By getting a duplicate meal.

No Peachum it is, or young Lockit,
That rifles my fob with a snatch ;
Alas! I must pick my own pocket,
And make gravy-soup of my watch!

So long I have wandered a starver,
I'm getting as keen as a hawk;
Time's long hand must take up a carver,
His short hand lay hold of a fork.

Right heavy and sad the event is,
But oh! it is Poverty's crime;
I've been such a Brownrigg's Apprentice,
I thus must be "out of my Time."

Alas! when in Brook Street the upper
In comfort I lived between walls,
I've gone to a dance for my supper;

But now I must go to Three Balls!

Folks talk about dressing for dinner,
But I have for dinner undrest;
Since Christmas, as I am a sinner,
I've eaten a suit of my best.

I haven't a rag or a mummock
To fetch me a chop or a steak;
I wish that the coats of my stomach

Were such as my Uncle would take :

When dishes were ready with garnish

!

My watch used to warn with a chime But now my repeater must furnish

The dinner in lieu of the time!

My craving will have no denials,
I can't fob it off, if you stay,
So go, and the old Seven Dials
Must tell me the time of the day.

Your chimes I shall never more hear 'em, To part is a Tic Douloureux !

But Tempus has his edax rerum,

And I have my Feeding-Time too!

Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We're come to my Uncle's old shop-
And Hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!

THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.

"The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners.” PICTURE OF ISLE OF WIGHT.

ONE close of day -'t was in the bay
Of Naples, bay of glory!

While light was hanging crowns of gold

On mountains high and hoary,

A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.

For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,

Her crew of men some nine or ten,
The captain's name was Iago;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (called) del Lago.

Bronzed mariners were hers to view,
With brown cheeks, clear or muddy,