If falls from scaffolds make us less
Inclined to all Constructiveness:
With more such matters, all applying
To heads-and therefore headifying.

A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."

ROGERS.

COME, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil ;

Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Ay, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,

That they cannot 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,

Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise! And as further 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 you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can't but agree with both ends, and pro

nounce

"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 de

light:

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!

A BUTCHER.

WHOE'ER has gone thro' London Street,
Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps

Gloating upon a sheep's
Or bullock's personals, as if his own;
How he admires his halves

And quarters-and his calves,

As if in truth upon his own legs grown;—
His fat! his suet!

His kidneys peeping elegantly thro' it!
His thick flank!
And his thin!
His shank!

His shin!

Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!

With what an air

He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare,
Gazing-and will not let a body by,
Tho' buy! buy! buy! be constantly his cry
Meanwhile with arms akimbo, and a pair
Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare
At his Joint Stock-for one may call it so,
Howbeit, without a Co.

The dotage of self-love was never fonder
Than he of his brute bodies all a-row;
Narcissus in the wave did never ponder,
With love so strong,

On his "portrait charmant,"

As our vain Butcher on his carcass yonder.

Look at his sleek round skull !

How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is, His visage seems to be

Ripe for beef-tea;

Of brutal juices the whole man is full-
In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,

The butcher is already half a Bull.

"DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE."

RUN!-run for St Clements'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 isn'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!