Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad,"

And gave me sixpence, "all he had ;'
But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy my sole relief?

Myself.

A VALENTINE.

THE WEATHER TO P. MURPHY,* ESQ., M.N.S.

These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action.

DEAR Murphy, to improve her charms,

Your servant humbly begs;

She thanks you for her leash of arms,
But wants a brace of legs.

* An Almanac-maker.

Moreover, as you promise folks,

On certain days a drizzle ;

She thinks, in case she cannot rain,
She should have means to mizzle.

Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
And if she cannot "fork it out,"
She'll wish to make a bolt!

POEM-FROM THE POLISH.

Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following

verses.

FROM Seventy-two north latitude,
Dear Kitty, I indite;

But first I'd have you understand

How hard it is to write.

[burn,

Of thoughts that breathe and words that

My Kitty, do not think,

Before I wrote these very lines,

I had to melt my ink.

Of mutual flames and lovers' warmth,

You must not be too nice;

The sheet that I am writing on
Was once a sheet of ice!

The Polar cold is sharp enough
To freeze with icy gloss
The genial current of the soul,
E'en in a "Man of Ross."

Pope says that letters waft a sigh
From Indus to the Pole;
But here I really wish the post
Would only "post the coal."

So chilly is the Northern blast,
It blows me through and through;

A ton of Wallsend in a note

Would be a billet-doux !

In such a frigid latitude

It scarce can be a sin,

Should Passion cool a little, where

A Fury was iced in.

I'm rather tired of endless snow,
And long for coals again;
And would give up a Sea of Ice,

For some of Lambton's Main.

I'm sick of dazzling ice and snow,

The sun itself I hate;

So very bright, so very cold,

Just like a summer grate.

For opodeldoc I would kneel,
My chilblains to anoint;
O Kate, the needle of the north
Has got a freezing point.

Our food is solids,-ere we put

Our meat into our crops,

We take sledge-hammers to our steaks And hatchets to our chops.

So very bitter is the blast,

So cutting is the air,

I never have been warm but once,
When hugging with a bear.

One thing I know you'll like to hear,
The effect of Polar snows,

I've left off snuff - one pinching day -
From leaving off my nose.

I have no ear for music now;
My ears both left together;
And as for dancing, I have cut
My toes it's cutting weather.

I've said that you

should have my hand,

Some happy day to come;

But, Kate, you only now can wed

A finger and a thumb.

Don't fear that any Esquimaux
Can wean me from my own;
The Girdle of the Queen of Love
Is not the Frozen Zone.

At wives with large estates of snow
My fancy does not bite;

I like to see a Bride- but not
In such a deal of white.

Give me for home a house of brick,

The Kate I love at Kew!

A hand unchopped

a merry eye,

And not a nose, of blue!

To think upon the Bridge of Kew,

To me a bridge of sighs; Oh, Kate, a pair of icicles

Are standing in my eyes!

God knows if I shall e'er return,
In comfort to be lulled;
But if I do get back to port,

Pray let me have it mulled.