I'm sick of all the double knock

That come to Number Four!

At Number Three, I often see

A Lover at the door;

And one in blue, at Number Two,

Calls daily like a dun,

It's very hard they come so near

And not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,

By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;

But I go in the balcony,

Which she has never done,

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five

Don't take at Number One !

'Tis hard with plenty in the street,

And plenty passing by,

There's nice young men at Number Ten,

But only rather shy;

And Mrs. Smith across the way

Has got a grown-up son,

But la! he hardly seems to know

There is a Number One!

There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,

But he's intent on pelf,

And though he's pious, will not love

His neighbour as himself.

At Number Seven there was a sale

The goods had quite a run!

And here I've got my single lot

On hand at Number One!

Once only when the flue took fire,

One Friday afternoon,

Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can't he come again without
The Phoenix and the Sun!
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!

I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait-

I am not crooked, like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I'm sure white satin made her look

As brown as any bun

But even beauty has no chance,

I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose

Has slain a score of hearts,

And Cupid, for her sake, has been

Quite prodigal of darts.

The Imp they show with bended bow,

I wish he had a gun!

But if he had, he'd never deign

To shoot with Number One.

AMONGST the sights that Mrs. Bond

Enjoyed, yet grieved at more than others

Were little ducklings in the pond,

Swimming about beside their mothers

Small things like living water lilies,

But yellow as the daffo-dillies.

#

"It's very hard," she used to moan,
"That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters-mine alone
Have never any pretty chucklings."
For why-each little yellow navy
Went down-all downy-to old Davy!

She had a lake-a pond I mean

Its wave was rather thick than pearly—
She had two ducks, their napes were green-
She had a drake, his tail was curly,-
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond,
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers-
The nests had eggs-the eggs had luck—
The infant D.'s came forth like others-
But there, alas! the matter stuck!
They might as well have all died addle,
As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her,
The mother set her brood afloat,
They sank ere long right under water,
Like any overloaded boat;
They were web-footed too to see,
As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humour in a gander

Brought havoc on her little folks,—
No poaching cook-a frying pander

To appetite,-destroyed their yolks,-
Beneath her very eyes, Od' rot 'em!
They went like plummets to the bottom.