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Even on Sunday my devotions vary,
And from St. Bennet Fink they go astray
To dear St. Mary Overy — the Mary

Over the way!

Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy,
With magic wand, how I would beg and pray
That she would change me into that canary

Over the way!

I envy every thing that's near Miss Lindo,
A pug, a poll, a squirrel or a jay -
Blest blue-bottles ! that buzz about the window

Over the way!

Even at even, for there be no shutters,
I see her reading on, from grave to gay,
Some tale or poem, till the candle gutters

Over the way!

And then - oh! then — while the clear waxen

taper Emits, two stories high, a starlike ray, I see twelve auburn curls put into paper

Over the way!

But how breathe unto her my deep regards,
Or ask her for a whispered ay or nay, —
Or offer her my hand, some thirty yards

Over the way?

Cold as the pole she is to my adoring ; -
Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse's Bay,
I meet an icy end to my exploring

Over the way!

Each dirty little Savoyard that dances
She looks on - Punch - or chimney-sweeps in

May;
Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances

Over the way?

Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat,
Or yelping cur, run over by a dray;
But I'm in love — she never pities that !

Over the way!

I go to the same church — a love-lost labour ; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play ; She does not seem to know she has a neighbour

Over the way!

At private theatres she never acts ;
No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts :

Over the way!

To billets-doux by post she shows no favour -
In short, there is no plot that I can lay
To break my window-pains to my enslaver

Over the way!

I play the flute, she heeds not my chromatics,
No friend an introduction can purvey;
I wish a fire would break out in the attics

Over the way!

My wasted form ought of itself to touch her ;
My baker feels my appetite's decay;
And as for butcher's meat — oh! she's my
butcher

Over the way!

At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray ;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out

Over the way!

I'm weary of my life ; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette

Over the way!

I've fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;
I've vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray,
Quite sick of number one — and number four

Over the way!

Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy.
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse, a cow, six fowls, a pig, and Mary,

Over the way!

Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite

Over the way!

I've cooed with her in dreams, like any turtle,
I've snatched her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and

| Tay; Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle

Over the way!

Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop, Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat “po-shay," And showered crowns to make the horses gallop

Over the way!

And thrice I've started up from dreams appalling
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray -
There is a young man very fond of calling

Over the way!

Oh! happy man — above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story

Over the way!

Nabob of Arcot — Despot of Japan -
Sultan of Persia — Emperor of Cathay
Much rather would I be the happy man

Over the way!

With such a lot my heart would be in clover —
But what — O horror! — what do I survey!
Postilions and white favours ! - all is over

Over the way!

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

A NEW STYLE OF BLANK VERSE.

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun — one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, —
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, —
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ; —
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span ;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings

things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung ;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,

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