Cold as the pole she is to my adoring;
Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse's Bay,
I meet an icy end to my exploring

Over the way!

Each dirty little Savoyard that dances
She looks on - Punch or chimney-sweeps in

May;

Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances

Over the way?

Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat,
Or yelping cur, run over by a dray;

But I'm in love she never pities that!
Over the way!

I

go to the same church -- a love-lost labour; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play; She does not seem to know she has a neighbour Over the way

At private theatres she never acts;

No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts

Over the way!

To billets-doux by post she shows no favour
In short, there is no plot that I can lay

To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!

I play the flute, she heeds not my chromatics,
No friend an introduction can purvey;

I wish a fire would break out in the attics

Over the way!

My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;
My baker feels my appetite's decay;

And as for butcher's meat-oh! she's my butcher

Over the way!

At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!

I'm weary of my life; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette
Over the way!

I've fitted bullets to my pistol-bore ;

I've vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray, Quite sick of number one and number four Over the way!

Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy.
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse, a cow, six fowls, a pig, and Mary,
Over the way!

Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!

I've cooed with her in dreams, like any turtle, I've snatched her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and

Tay;

Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle

Over the way!

Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop, Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat "po-shay," And showered crowns to make the horses gallop Over the way!

And thrice I've started up from dreams appalling Of killing rivals in a bloody fray

There is a young man very fond of calling

Oh! happy man

Over the way!

above all kings in glory,

Whoever in her ear may say his say,

And add a tale of love to that one story

Over the way!

Nabob of Arcot - Despot of Japan

Sultan of Persia - Emperor of Cathay

Much rather would I be the happy man

Over the way!

With such a lot my heart would be in clover
O horror! - what do I survey!

But what - O horror!

Postilions and white favours! — all is over

Over the way!

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

A NEW STYLE OF BLANK VERSE.

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split

Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things

Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,

Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,

And while they 're going, whisper low, "No go!"

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,

And sleepers waking, grumble-"Drat that cat!"

Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears what faith is man's

Ann's banns

And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows'

woes!