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Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag,
Quite to a rag. Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life,
Afraid of his own “ Wife ;” Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail Of water backing him, all down his spine,“ The ice-brook's temper”- pleasant to the
chine ! For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail. Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer, Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows-where? Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth, While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck,
Squeeze out and suck More oranges with his one fevered mouth, Than Nelly had to hawk from North to South ? Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet, Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice, From his best friend, an ice, Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet !
Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints,
During their trial ?
'Tis past denial. And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock, All eyes upon him turn to very meacock ? And does not Planché, tremulous and blank, Meanwhile his personages tread the boards,
Seem goaded by sharp swords,
What have they more
Thus pending — does not Mathews, at sad
shift For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny ? Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift? — And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny ? Haynes Bayley feel Old ditto, with the note Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple
About his arms, and Adam's apple,
A frightful mug of human delf?
A leaden-platter ready for the shelf ?
Quite in a hurry,
All going well,
There's no denying,
flying, My legs for running — all the rest was frying !
Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use
Thy pens so innocent of goose ! For this shall Dramatists, when they make merry,
Discarding Port and Sherry,
Drink — “Perry!”
To distant lands,
Text, running, German, Roman,
And when, ah, me! far distant be the hour !
On due pentagonal base,
Perry, Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr !
THE UNDYING ONE.
“ He shall not die.” — UNCLE TOBY.
Of all the verses, grave or gay,
That ever wiled an hour,
At once so sweet and sour,
I'm very certain that she drew
A portrait, when she penned
That picture of a perfect Jew,
Whose days will never end :
These twenty years he's been the same,
And may be twenty more;
His features for a score ;
IV. . They say our climate's damp and cold,
And lungs are tender things; . My uncle's much abroad and old,
But when“ King Cole” he sings, A Stentor's voice, enough to stun, Declares him an Undying One.
Others have died from needle-pricks,
And very slender blows;
Or bleedings at the nose ;