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Moreover, as you promise folks,
On certain days a drizzle ;
She should have means to mizzle.
Some lightning too may just fall due,
When woods begin to moult;
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 ;
[burn, Of thoughts that breathe and words that
My Kitty, do not think,—
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
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,
A Fury was iced in.
I'm rather tired of endless snow,
And long for coals again ;
For some of Lambton's Main.
I'm sick of dazzling ice and snow,
The sun itself I hate;
Just like a summer grate.
For opodeldoc I would kneel,
My chilblains to anoint;
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,
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 ;
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 ;
In such a deal of white.
Give me for home a house of brick,
The Kate I love at Kew!
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.
O, London is the place for all,
In love with loco-motion ! Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean ;
Can all be had for paying,
Or bodies want conveying.
There's always hacks about in packs,
Wherein you may be shaken,
Tho' always overtaken ;
His nags are in their last days,
As if they had their fast days!
Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age,
As those of our Queen Mab age; . '