Before my eyes

Bid changeful Proteus rise,

Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.

Come listen to my lay,

While I the wild and wondrous tale array,

How Fly-by-Night went down,

And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared;
And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered ;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and gaoled :
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner

Went without his Sunday dinner,

Because he had not metal bright,

And waved in vain before the butcher's sight,

The promises of Fly-by-Night.

And little Jackey Horner

Sate sulking in the corner,

And in default of Christmas pie

Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.

Come listen to my lay,
And ye shall say,

That never tale of errant knight,
Or captive damsel bright,
Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,
Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,
Or cloistral phantom all in white,
Or castle on accessless height,
Upreared by necromantic might,
Was half so full of rare delight,
As this whereof I now prolong,
The memory in immortal song-

The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.

OCCURRING DURING A GALE OF WIND AT MIDNIGHT, WHILE I WAS WRITING A PAPER ON THE CURRENCY, BY THE LIGHT OF TWO MOULD CANDLES.

By W. W., Esq.,* Distributor of Stamps.

"Quid distent æra lupinis ?"-HOR.

MUCH grieved am I in spirit by the news of this day's post, Which tells me of the devil to pay with the paper money

host:

"Tis feared that out of all their mass of promises to pay, The devil alone will get his due: he'll take them at his day.

I have a pleasant little nook secured from colds and damps, From whence to paper money men I serve out many stamps; From thence a fair per-centage gilds my dwelling in the

glen;

And therefore do I sympathize with the paper money men.

I muse, I muse, for much this news my spirit doth perplex,
But whilst I muse I can't refuse a pint of double X,
Which Mrs W. brings to me, which she herself did brew,
Oh! doubly sweet is double X from Mistress double U.

The storm is on the mountain side, the wind is all around;
It sweeps across the lake and vale, it makes a mighty sound;
A rushing sound, that makes me think of what I've heard at

sea,

"The devil in a gale of wind is as busy as a bee."

I fear the devil is busy now with the paper money men: I listen to the tempest's roar through mountain pass and glen;

I hear amid the eddying blast a sound among the hills, Which to my fancy seems the sound of bursting paper mills.

* William Wordsworth.

A money-grinding paper mill blows up with such a sound,
As shakes the green geese from their nests for many miles

around;

Oh woe to him who seeks the mill pronouncing sternly "Pay!"

A spell like "open sesame" which evil sprites obey.

The word of power up-blows the mill, the miller disappears: The shattered fragments fall in showers about the intruder's

ears;

And leave no trace to mark the place of what appeared so great,

But shreds of rags, and ends of quills, and bits of copper-plate.

I love the paper money, and the paper money men;
My hundred, if they go to pot, I fear would sink to ten;
The country squires would cry "Retrench!" and then I might
no doubt,

Be sent about my business; yea, even right about.

I hold the paper money men say truly, when they say
They ought to pay their promises, with promises to pay;
And he is an unrighteous judge, who says they shall or may,
Be made to keep their promises in any other way.

The paper money goes about, by one, and two, and five,
A circulation like the blood, that keeps the land alive :

It pays the rent of country squires, and makes them think

they thrive,

When else they might be lighting fires to smoke the loyal hive.

The paper money goes about: it works extremely well:
I find it buys me everything that people have to sell:
Bread, beef, and breeches, coals and wine, and all good things

in store,

The paper money buys for me: and what could gold do more?

The promise works extremely well, so that it be but broken: 'Tis not a promise to be kept, but a solemn type and token, A type of value gone abroad on travel long ago;

And how it's to come back again, God knows, I do not know.

If ignorant impatience makes the people run for gold, Whatever's left that paper bought must be put up and sold; If so, perhaps they'll put up me as a purchase of the Crown; I fear I shan't fetch sixpence, but I'm sure to be knock'd down.

The promise is not to be kept, that point is very clear; 'Twas proved so by a Scotch adept who dined with me lastyear,

I wish, instead of viands rare, which were but thrown away, I had dined him on a bill of fare, to be eaten at Doomsday.

God save the paper money and the paper money men! God save them all from those who call to have their gold again;

God send they may be always safe against a reckoning day; And then God send me plenty of their promises to pay!

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.

*

By T. M., Esq.

Ο δ' Ερως, χιτωνα δήσας

Υπερ αυχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩι.-ΑANACE.

LITTLE Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;

And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting

The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.

The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,

Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.

And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,

And behind him a Scotchman was singing "Prosperity,"
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

* Thomas Moore.

And "Walth and prosparity," "Walth and prosparity,"
His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,

To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,

Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.

But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,

And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone, And ere the scared miller could call for assistance, The mill to a million of atoms was blown.

Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.

Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,

Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.

"Oh, mother," he cried, as he showed them to Venus,

"What are these little talismans cyphered-One-One? If you think them worth having, we'll share them between

us,

Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John."

"My darling," says Venus, "away from you throw them, They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals 'tis true; But we want them not here, though I think you might know

them,

Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you."