250

Ay, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they can not keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,

and pages

there are to revise!

Oh, what ages
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin-
Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,

Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong-infant pleasures as weak—
But no grief was allowed to indulge in its note;
Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"
Thro' the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did

you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did ever come down to the floor with the same? you Oh! I can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce "Head or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin-I see myself urchin, indeed,

With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight;
Why should weeks have an end?—I am sure there was need
Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday-night.

Was your

face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? Have you ever felt huckaback softened with sand? Had you ever your nose towelled up to a snub,

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy-my tailor was nothing in fault,
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees-
But how well I remember that "pepper and salt"
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!

With a lanky right leg duly planted before;

Whilst I told of the chief that was killed by my stroke,
And extended my arms as the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover-Oh! say, were you ever in love?
With a lady too cold-and your bosom too hot?
Have you bowed to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove?
Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue,
Did you walk up the aisle-the genteelest of men?
When I think of that beautiful vision anew,

Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care,

And my wrinkles confess the decline of my days; Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,

And I'm seeking to hide it—by writing for bays!

"DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?"

RUN!-run for St. Clement's engine!
For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singing-
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—
But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.

The engines!-I hear them come rumbling;
There's the Phoenix! the Globe! and the Sun!
What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
When the water don't start for a run!
See! there they come racing and tearing,

All the street with loud voices is filled;
Oh! it's only the firemen a-swearing

At a man they've run over and killed!

How sweetly the sparks fly away now,

And twinkle like stars in the sky;
It's a wonder the engines don't play now,
But I never saw water so shy!
Why there is n't enough for a snipe,
And the fire it is fiercer, alas!
Oh! instead of the New River Pipe,

They have gone that they have-to the gas.

Only look at the poor little P's

On the roof is there any thing sadder? My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,

And they won't be an hour with the ladder!

But if any one's hot in their feet,

And in very great haste to be saved, Here's a nice easy bit in the street,

That M'Adam has lately unpaved!

There is some one--I see a dark shape

At that window, the hottest of all—
My good woman, why don't you escape?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
If your dress is n't perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt?
When your husband is paying a visit

There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

Only see how she throws out her chaney!
Her basins, and tea-pots, and all
The most brittle of her goods--or any,

But they all break in breaking their fall:

Such things are not surely the best

From a two-story window to throwShe might save a good iron-bound chest, For there's plenty of people below!

O dear! what a beautiful flash!

How it shone thro' the window and door; We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, When the woman falls thro' with the floor! There! there! what a volley of flame, And then suddenly all is obscured!— Well-I'm glad in my heart that I came ;But I hope the poor man is insured!

254

THE WIDOW.

ONE widow at a grave

will sob

A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together-why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice-
But five will up and have a dance!

Poor Mrs. C (why should I not
Declare her name?-her name was Cross)
Was one of those the "common lot"

66 no common loss :"-
Had left to weep
For she had lately buried then
A man, the "very best of men,"
A lingering truth, discovered first
Whenever men "are at the worst."
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep;
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears."
Though ever since she lost "her prop
And stay"-alas! he would n't stay—
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop,

From Passion's eye, as Moore would say;