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To rise from little into great
Is pleasant; but to sink in state
From high to lowly is a fate

Severe.

Too soon his shine is overcast,
Chilled by the next November blast ;
His blushing honors only last

One year!

He casts his fur and sheds his chains,
And moults till not a plume remains —
The next impending May’r distrains

His gear.

He slips like water through a sieve —
Ah, could his little splendor live
Another twelvemonth — he would give

One ear!

SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION.

" An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a Boney-parte.”—LIFE OF NAPOLEON.

Time was, I always had a drop
For any tale or sigh of sorrow;
My handkerchief I used to sop
Till often I was forced to borrow;

I don't know how it is, but now
My eyelids seldom want a drying ;
The doctors, p’rhaps, could tell me how -
I fear my heart is ossifying !

O’er Goethe how I used to weep,
With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,
When Werter put himself to sleep
With pistols kissed and cleaned by Charlotte ;
Self-murder is an awful sin,
No joke there is in bullets flying,
But now at such a tale I grin -
I fear my heart is ossifying !

The Drama once could shake and thrill
My nerves, and set my tears a stealing,
The Siddons then could turn at will
Each plug upon the main of feeling;
At Belvidera now I smile,
And laugh while Mrs. Haller 's crying;
'Tis odd, so great a change of style —
I fear my heart is ossifying !

That heart was such — some years ago,
To see a beggar quite would shock it,
And in his hat I used to throw
The quarter's savings of my pocket:
I never wish — as I did then! - .
The means from my own purse supplying,
To turn them all to gentlemen :-
I fear my heart is ossifying!

We've had some serious things of late,
Our sympathies to beg or borrow,
New melo-drames, of tragic fate,
And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow;
Miss Zouch's case, our eyes to melt,
And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing,
But Lord ! so little have I felt,
I'm sure my heart is ossifying !

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride,
That once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

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Bili Blossom was a nice young man,

And drove the Bury coach ;
But bad companions were his bane,

And egged him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,

And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier,

He often set a snare. VOL. III. 17

Each “shiny night” the moon was bright,

To park, preserve, and wood
He went, and kept the game alive,

By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore

That he had this demerit Give him an inch of warren, he

Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;

And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead,

Were sent to Leaden-Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer

From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,

Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares

His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made

Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,

He tried the keeper's nerves ;
They swore he never seemed to have

Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found

No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the covers made

Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,

In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried

The Manors about Sutton.*

No county from his tricks was safe ;

In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in Beds,

He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas !

They always came to Herts ; And even Oxon used to wish

That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants,

Old Cheshire laid his plots :
He got entrapped by legal Berks,

And lost his life in Notts.

*[Charles Manners Sutton was for many years Speaker of the House of Commons.)

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