Who in the country have no stake,
Would be too like a quiz ;
No banners hoist-let off no gun—
Pitch no marquee devise no fun—
But think when man is Twenty-One
What new delights are his !

What is the moral legal fact-
Of age to-day, I'm free to act
For self--free, namely, to contract
Engagements, bonds, and debts;
I'm free to give my I O U,
Sign, draw, accept, as majors do;
And free to lose my freedom too
For want of due assets.

I am of age to ask Miss Ball,
Or that great heiress, Miss Duval,
To go to church, hump, squint, and all,
And be my own for life.

But put such reasons on their shelves,
To tell the truth between ourselves,

I'm one of those contented elves
Who do not want a wife.

What else belongs to Manhood still?
I'm old enough to make my will
With valid clause and codicil

Before in turf I lie.

But I have nothing to bequeath
In earth, or waters underneath,
And in all candor let me breathe,
I do not want to die.

Away! if this be Manhood's forte,
Put by the sherry and the port-
No ring of bells-no rustic sport-
No dance-no merry pipes!
No flowery garlands—no bouquet—
No Birthday Ode to sing or say—
To me it seems this is a day

For bread and cheese and swipes.

To justify the festive cup

What horrors here are conjured up!
What things of bitter bite and sup,
Poor wretched Twenty-One's!

No landed lumps, but frumps and humps,
(Discretion's Days are far from trumps,)
Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps,

Death, dockets, debts, and duns!

If you must drink, oh drink "the King," Reform-the Church-the Press-the Ring, Drink Aldgate Pump-or anything,

Before a toast like this!

Nay, tell me, coming thus of age,
And turning o'er this sorry page,
Was young Nineteen so far from sage?
Or young Eighteen from bliss?

Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn
No sign of May about the thorn-
Were Love and Bacchus both unborn?

Had Beauty not a shape?

Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty!

Make answer, lads of Trinity?

Who sipped with me Divinity,

And quaffed the ruby grape !

No flummery then from flowery lips,
No three times three and hip-hip-hips,
Because I'm ripe and full of pips—
I like a little green.

To put me on my solemn oath,

If sweep-like I could stop my growth
I would remain, and nothing loth,
A boy-about nineteen.

My friends, excuse me these rebukes!
Were I a monarch's son, or duke's,
Go to the Vatican of Meux

And broach his biggest barrels― Impale whole elephants on spitsRing Tom of Lincoln till he splits, And dance into St. Vitus's fits,

And break your winds with carols!

But ah! too well you know my lot,
Ancestral acres greet me not,
My freehold 's in a garden-pot,
And barely worth a pin.
Away then with all festive stuff !
Let Robins advertise and puff

My "Man's Estate," I'm sure enough
I shall not buy it in.

THE LOST HEIR.

“Oh where, and oh where

Is my bonnie laddie gone ?"—Old Song.

ONE day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chill'd my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.

She turned her East, she turned her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,

With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.

This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man-
Her right hand held a frying-pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone, almost a screech,
As wild as ocean birds,

Or female Ranter moved to preach,
She gave her sorrow words."

"

"O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick

stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen any thing about the streets like a crying lost-looking child?

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I
only knew which way—

A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially
Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch,
you little Kitty M'Nab!

You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making

little dirt pies.

I wonder he left the court, where he was better off than all the other young boys,

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead kitten by way of toys.

When his Father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done!

La bless you, good folks, mind your own concarns, and don't be making a mob in the street;

O Serjeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?

Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;

Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the priggs;

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it mysel for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;

And his trowsers considering not very much patched, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair.