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Of mutual flames and lovers' warmth,

You must not be too nice;

The sheet that I am writing on
Was once a sheet of ice!

The Polar cold is sharp enough
To freeze with icy gloss
The genial current of the soul,
E'en in a "Man of Ross."

Pope says that letters waft a sigh
From Indus to the Pole;
But here I really wish the post
Would only "post the coal.”

So chilly is the Northern blast,
It blows me through and through;

A ton of Wallsend in a note
Would be a billet-doux !

In such a frigid latitude

It scarce can be a sin,

Should Passion cool a little, where

A Fury was iced in.

I'm rather tired of endless snow,
And long for coals again ;
And would give up a Sea of Ice,
For some of Lambton's Main.

I'm sick of dazzling ice and snow,

The sun itself I hate;

So very bright, so very cold,
Just like a summer grate.

For opodeldoc I would kneel,
My chilblains to anoint;
O Kate, the needle of the north
Has got a freezing point.

Our food is solids,-ere we put

Our meat into our crops,

We take sledge-hammers to our steaks

And hatchets to our chops.

[blocks in formation]

So cutting is the air,

I never have been warm but once,

When hugging with a bear.

One thing I know you'll like to hear,
The effect of Polar snows,
I've left off snuff-one pinching day
From leaving off my nose.

I have no ear for music now;
My ears both left together;
And as for dancing, I have cut
My toes it's cutting weather.

I've said that you should have my hand,

Some happy day to come;

But, Kate, you only now can wed
A finger and a thumb.

Don't fear that any Esquimaux
Can wean me from my own;
The Girdle of the Queen of Love
Is not the Frozen Zone.

At wives with large estates of snow

My fancy does not bite;

I like to see a Bride

but not

In such a deal of white.

Give me for home a house of brick,

The Kate I love at Kew!
A hand unchopped-a merry eye,
And not a nose, of blue!

To think upon the Bridge of Kew,
To me a bridge of sighs;
Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles
Are standing in my eyes!

God knows if I shall e'er return,
In comfort to be lulled ;
But if I do get back to port,
Pray let me have it mulled.

CONVEYANCING.

O, LONDON is the place for all,
In love with loco-motion !
Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean;
Machine or man, or caravan,
Can all be had for paying,
When great estates, or heavy weights,
Or bodies want conveying.

There's always hacks about in packs,

Wherein you may be shaken, And Jarvis is not always drunk, Tho' always overtaken;

In racing tricks he'll never mix,

His nags are in their last days, And slow to go, altho' they show

As if they had their fast days!

Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age,
A car not quite so small and light

As those of our Queen Mab age;

The horses have been broken well,

All danger is rescinded,

For some have broken both their knees And some are broken winded.

If you've a friend at Chelsea end,
The stages are worth knowing-
There is a sort, we call 'em short,
Although the longest going-
For some will stop at Hatchett's shop,
Till you grow faint and sicky,
Perched up behind, at last to find,
Your dinner is all dickey!

Lon stages run from every yard;
But if you're wise and frugal,
You'll never go with any Guard
That plays upon the bugle,

"Ye banks and braes,” and other lays, And ditties everlasting,

Like miners going all your way,

With boring and with blasting.

Instead of journeys, people now
May go upon a Gurney,
With steam to do the horses' work,
By powers of attorney ;

Tho' with a load it may explode,

And you may all be un-done!

And find you're going up to Heaven, Instead of up to London !

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