CONVEYANCING.

O, LONDON is the place for all,
In love with loco-motion !
Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean;
Machine or man, or caravan,
Can all be had for paying,
When great estates, or heavy weights,
Or bodies want conveying.

There's always hacks about in packs,

Wherein you may be shaken, And Jarvis is not always drunk, Tho' always overtaken;

In racing tricks he'll never mix,

His nags are in their last days, And slow to go, altho' they show

As if they had their fast days!

Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age,
A car not quite so small and light

As those of our Queen Mab age;

The horses have been broken well,

All danger is rescinded,

For some have broken both their knees And some are broken winded.

If you've a friend at Chelsea end,
The stages are worth knowing-
There is a sort, we call 'em short,
Although the longest going-
For some will stop at Hatchett's shop,
Till you grow faint and sicky,
Perched up behind, at last to find,
Your dinner is all dickey!

Lon stages run from every yard;
But if you 're wise and frugal,
You'll never go with any Guard
That plays upon the bugle,

"Ye banks and braes," and other lays, And ditties everlasting,

Like miners going all your way,

With boring and with blasting.

Instead of journeys, people now
May go upon a Gurney,
With steam to do the horses' work,

By powers of attorney;

Tho' with a load it may explode,

And you may all be un-done!
And find you're going up to Heaven,
Instead of up to London!

To speak of every kind of coach,
It is not my intention;

But there is still one vehicle

Deserves a little mention;

The world a sage has called a stage,
With all its living lumber,
And Malthus swears it always bears
Above the proper number.

The law will transfer house or land
Forever and a day hence,

For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,
You'll never want conveyance;
Ho! stop the thief! my handkerchief!
It is no sight for laughter-
Away it goes, and leaves my nose
To join in running after !

EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENTALIST.

"My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!"— - HAMLET.

I THINK it was Spring-but not certain I am
When my passion began first to work;
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.

'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,

Yes,- for Morris had asked me to dine,And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine.

[wild,

Placed close by her side, it made others quite With sheer envy to witness my luck;

How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled

As I afterwards offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love - but my heart was quite lost,

When it came to the trifle and sweets!

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,
To her parents I told my designs-
And then to herself I presented my hand,
With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,
And she did not object in the least;

I can't tell the date but we married, I know,

Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to

it certainly was the seaside; For the next, the most blessed of morns,

I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O never may memory lose sight of that year,
But still hallow the time as it ought,

That season the " grass was remarkably dear, And the peas at a guinea a quart..

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,

So united in heart

so congenial in taste, We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,

But then Death I ne'er dreamt about that!

Oh there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried, When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,
But the cause no physician could nab;
But something it seemed like consumption, I fear,
It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relished the most,
Even salmon she deeply declined.

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin;