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His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest;

But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast.

He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sew'd in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim.

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him.

Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some old beggar woman in want of an orphan

Had borrowed the child to go a begging with; but I'd rather see him laid out in his coffin!

Do, good people, move on; such a rabble of boys! I'll bone of 'em I come near; break every Go home you're spilling the porter-go home-Tommy Jones, go along with your beer.

This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my name was Betty Morgan,

Them vile Savoyards! they lost him once before all along of following a Monkey and an Organ:

O my Billy-my head will turn right round-if he's got kiddynapp'd with them Italians

They'll make him a plaster parish image boy, they will, the outlandish tatterdemalions.

Billy-where are you, Billy?—I'm as hoarse as a crow, with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!

And shan't have half a voice, no more I shan't, for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.

O Billy, you're bursting my heart in two, and my life won't be of no more vally,

If I'm to see other folks darlins, and none of mine, playing like angels in our alley,

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And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I looks at the old three-legged chair

As Billy used to make coach and horses of, and there a'n't no Billy there!

I would run all the wide world over to find him, if I only knowed where to run;

Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost for a month through stealing a penny-bun

The Lord forbid of any child of mine! I think it would
kill me raily

To find my Bill holdin' up his little innocent hand at the
Old Bailey.

For though I say it as ought n't, yet I will say, you may
search for miles and mileses

And not find one better brought up, and more pretty be-
haved, from one end to t' other of St. Giles's.

And if I called him a beauty, it's no lie, but only as a
Mother ought to speak;

You never set eyes on a more handsomer face, only it has n't
been washed for a week;

As for hair, tho' its red, its the most nicest hair when I've time to just show it the comb;

I'll owe 'em five pounds, and a blessing besides, as will only bring him safe and sound home.

He's blue eyes, and not to be called a squint, though a little cast he's certainly got;

And his nose is still a good un, tho' the bridge is broke, by his falling on a pewter pint pot;

He's got the most elegant wide mouth in the world, and very large teeth for his age;

And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson's child to play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.

And then he has got such dear winning ways-but O I never never shall see him no more!

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!

Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog.

It's no use to send the Cryer to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog;

The last time he was fetched to find a lost child, he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown,

And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a distracted Mother and Father about Town.

Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers!

I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers. Or may be he's stole by some chimbly sweeping wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,

And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly's red hot.

Oh I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face.

For he's my darlin of darlins, and if he don't soon come back, you'll see me drop stone dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Motherly arms, and would n't I hug him and kiss him!

Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was-but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

Why there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as sin!

But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE. 185

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow."-SCOTCH SONG.

ON that first Saturday in May,

When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R. A.

Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what's called the private view,
Amongst the guests-the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row-

There came a large and vulgar dame
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;

No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to "scour the Paint."

From wall to wall she forced her way,
Elbowed Lord Durham-poked Lord Grey-
Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move,
And Devonshire's Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honor, budge,
And

gave a pinch to Park the Judge.
As for the ladies, in this stir,

The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two,

She searched the pictures through and through,
On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,

And squatted down to scan the shy ones.

And as she went from part to part,

A deeper red each cheek became,

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Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
"Really an ardent love of art!"
Alas, amidst her inquisition,

Fate brought her to a sad condition;

She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil,
But ah! her picture-joy to spoil,

She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.

The Keeper mute, with staring eyes,
Like a lay-figure for surprise,

At last thus stammered out "How now?
Woman-where, woman, is your ticket,

That ought to let you through our wicket?”
"Where is David's Cow?"
Says woman,
Said Mr. H -, with expedition,

There's no Cow in the Exhibition.

"No Cow!"-but here her tongue in verity,

Set off with steam and rail celerity—

"No Cow! there an't no Cow, then the more 's the shame

and pity

Hang you and the R. A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee !
for needn't talk to me-
you
No cow-but hold your tongue,
You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought
to be--

I haven't seen a picture high or low, or any how,

Or in any of the rooms to be compared with David's Cow? You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and your Wards,

Why hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are

on cords!