As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather;
But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality,

She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality,

Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother.

Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.

So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,

Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it ;
Oh! I never, never, never, never, never see a sight so shockin';
Here lays a leg, and there a leg—I mean, you know, a stocking—
Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,
And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black
with dirt;

But as nobody was in 'em-none but-nobody was hurt!
Well, there I am, a-scrambling up the things, all in a lump,
When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.
And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,
A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:

Then she beckons with her finger, and so down to her I reaches,
And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,
For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I
knew ;

Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered-'Why, where is the powder blew!'"

THE LAST WISH.

HEN I resign this world so briary,
To have across the Styx my ferrying,
Oh, may I die without a DIARY!
And be interr'd without a BURY-ing!

THE poor dear dead have been laid out in vain,
Turn'd into cash, they are laid out again!

THE DEVIL'S ALBUM.

T will seem an odd whim
For a spirit so grim

As the Devil to take a delight in ;
But by common renown

He has come up to town,

With an Album for people to write in!

On a handsomer book

Mortal never did look ;
Of a flame-colour silk is the binding!
With a border superb,

Where through flow'ret and herb,
The old serpent goes brilliantly winding!

By gilded grotesques,

And emboss'd arabesques,

The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded;

But, alas! in a taste

That betrays they were traced

At the will of a Spirit degraded !

As for paper-the best,
But extremely hot-pressed,
Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it;

And against ev'ry blank

There's a note on the Bank, As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet.

Who will care to appear

In the Fiend's Souvenir,

Is a question to mortals most vital;
But the very first leaf,

It's the public belief,

Will be filled by a Lady of Title

THE WEATHER.

A VALENTINE.

TO P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S.

[These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action.

EAR Murphy, to improve her charms,

Your servant humbly begs;

She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.

Moreover, as you promise folks
On certain days a drizzle ;
She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to mizzle.

Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot "fork it out,"
She'll wish to make a bolt!

CONVEYANCING.

H, 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!

Long 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 Heav'n Instead of up to London!

To speak of every kind of coach,

It is not my intention; But there is still one vehicle

Deserves a little mention;

The world a sage has call'd a stage,
With all its living lumber,

And Malthus swears it always bears
Above the proper number.

The law will transfer house or land

For ever and a day hence,

For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,
You'll never want conveyance:

Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!
It is no sight for laughter-
Away it goes, and leaves my nose
To join in running after.

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resign'd, I kissed the rod."

ELL! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish

To inveigle the fish,

To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream

Must be scarce in the stream,

And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook

With attention I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;