To change the fate of Lawyers-
Confirm the Parson's holy sinecure-
Make worthless sin's approaches-
To justify the bringing up addresses
To me, in hackney coaches,
From operative Sawyers!"

"To murder thee"

Methinks-" will never harm my precious headFor what can chance me, when the Devil is dead?” But when I look on thy serene repose,

Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose,

My thoughts become less dangerous and more deep;

I can but wish thee everlasting sleep!

Sleep free from dreams

Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ball— Sleep free from all

That would make shadowy, devilish slumber

darker,

Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker!

Oh! fare thee well!

Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell, Tiny remembrancer of a Printer's Hell!

Young thing of darkness, seeming

A small, poor type of wickedness set up!

Full is thy little cup

Of misery in the waking world! So dreaming Perchance may now undemonize thy fate

And bear thee, Black-boy, to a whiter state! Yet mortal evil is, than thine, more high ;— Thou art upright in sleep; men sleep-and lie! And from thy lids to me a moral peeps,

For I correct my errors-while the Devil sleeps!

ANACREONTIC,

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse, or fit season,
For toasts to be honored, or pledges to pass,
Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For, hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who has leisure to cozen,
Having finished the months, like the flasks at a

feast,

Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen !

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom The past Year has been pleasant and sunny; Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honeyDays ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears, Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin―

Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bowed to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently
passed,

Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury

Still, fill to the future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout, in hopes of a kindlier dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

EPIGRAM.

ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY.

THEY may talk of the plugging and sweating
Of our coinage that's minted of gold,

But to me it produces no fretting

Of its shortness of weight to be told: All the sov❜reigns I'm able to levy

As to lightness can never be wrong, But must surely be some of them heavy For I never can carry them long.

TO C. DICKENS, ESQ.,

ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA.

PSHAW! away with leaf and berry,
And the sober-sided cup!
Bring a goblet, and bright sherry,
And a bumper fill me up!
Though a pledge I had to shiver,
And the longest ever was!
Ere his vessel leaves our river,
I would drink a health to Boz!

Here's success to all his antics,
Since it pleases him to roam,
And to paddle o'er Atlantics,
After such a sale at home!

May he shun all rocks whatever,
And each shallow sand that lurks,

And his passage be as clever

As the best among his works.

NOVEMBER.

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!

END OF VOL. III.