I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum, Like a very muffled double drum,

And then a something faintly shrill,

Like Bartlemy Fair's old buzz at Pentonville.

And now and then hear a pop,

As if from Pedley's Soda Water shop.
I'm almost ill with the strong scent of mud,
And, not to mention sneezing,

My cough is, more than usual, teasing;
I really fear that I have chilled my blood,
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!"

RONDEAU.

[EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOwn annual.]

O CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne'er
Behold a worshipful Lord May'r

Seated in his great civic chair

So dear?

way,

Then cast thy longing eyes this
It is the ninth November day,
And in his new-born state survey
One here!

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 NAPO

LEON.

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.

BILI, BLOSSOм 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.

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.