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OF three dear maids, whose lóvely fáces
You'd swear were borrowed from the Graces,
Whích I like bést 'twere hard to say,
So perfect each one in her way.
There 's Mary Anne, delightful girl!
With cheeks of roses, teeth of pearl,
Laúghing blue eyes and auburn hair
And súch a winning, witching air
Poór, inexpérienced heart, beware,
And, ere thou 'rt quíte caught, look elsewhere;
Look at Matilda’s form and mien,
Where upon earth were lovelier seen?
Matilda's step, Matilda's voice
Well, it 's a crúel thing a choice.
Ah! could I but my heart divide
Each should of one half be the bride.
Castles in Spain! and if I could,
And if I dáre, think'st thou I would,
And not keep óne whole third for thee,
Sly, róguish, black-eyed Emily?
What! won't a third do? come, don't poút,
Thou shalt the whole have; time about,
My whole, whole heart impartially
I'll give to each one of the three;
Each day a different queen shall reign,
Each day I 'll wear a different chain;

Tomorrow Í 'm Matilda's own,
Next day, dear Máry Ánne's alóne,
Today, I 'm thine, sweet Émilý,
Todáy, do whát thou lík'st with mé,
Today I live for only theé.

CARLSRUHE, Jan. 21, 1856.

CRITIC.

BAD verses, Sir poet; there never were worse.

POET.

I 'm sorry to hear it; but deal with these géntly,
Next time I 'll do bétter.

CRITIC.

You flátter yourself.

POET.

Nay, I'm quite sure

for, next time, I 'll get you to help me.

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HERE I ám, your thimblerigger, kind gentlemen and ladies; Put your money down; now guéss; see! it 's an empty thimble. “You cheat! you scamp! you tramp! you vágabond ! you

swindler!" Try your lúck again, good friend; see thére! this time you 're

winner Who 's cheát and scámp and trámp, now, and vagabond and

swindler?

CARLSRUHE,

Jan. 20, 1856.

WHEN every one of us has got his just rights,
And the price of land 's fixed at three hálfpence an åcre,
And bread is for nothing and bútter for léss,
And lacqueys and járvies drive in their own coaches,
And housemaids hold dráwingrooms, streetsweepers lévees,
And the clerk and the sexton wear láwn sleeves and mítre,
And every one teaches and nobody leárns,
And boys are all grown men, and misses all ladies,
We 'll join heart and hand some fine mórning together
And lay hold on that wicked witch, old mother Nature,
And pélt her with rotten eggs, dúck her and soúse her
Till she criés out “Peccávi!” and swears by St. Simon,
Louis Blánc, and Mazzini, to expél from her grammar
All degreés of comparison good, bad, and middling,
And higher and lower, and greater and smaller
And from thénceforth for ever in all her domínions
Have all things as equal as éggs in a basket,
Or peás on a tréncher, or hairs on a pig's tail,
And gives us a plédge that she's downright in earnest,
By abólishing, instantly and on the spot,
The absúrd and invidious and aristocrátic,
Oppressive distinction of right hand and left.

CARLSRUHE, Jan. 3, 1856.

THE great Róman dictátor, his báldness to hide,
Bound his temples with laurel; thou, wiser, dictáte not,
And thy báldness to hide thou mayst spáre even the laurel.

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CARLSRUHE, Jan. 1, 1856.

ALL Césars since Július have worn the laurl wreath. Because bald like him? or becaúse the laur'l wreath Has the virtue to cover more eyesores than báldness?

CARLSRUHE, Jan. 1, 1856.

COME, my friends, let's enjoy the good things of this world, Eat our roást, crack our jóke, take our eáse, drink our bottle, And be right jolly féllows, true souls, friendly brothers, Bottle nósed, copper cheeked, hanging lipped, and bald páted, Round paúnched, oily skinned, gouty footed and hånded, Coarse minded, fine pálated, choleric, and short breathed, And to dié on a súdden and quite fill the coffin.

CARLSRUHE, Jan. 5, 1856.

POET AND PROSODIAN.

PROSODIAN.

Bad iámbics, Sir Póet. In place of this tróchee
Thou hast here in thy first place, please pút an iámbus,
And at the line's end amputáte without mércy
That hálf-foot supérfluous.

POET.

Nay; áren't they both beauties?

PROSODIAN.

To be sure; but not therefore the less against rúle.

POET.

What rúle 's above beauty ?

PROSODIAN.

The líne can't be scanned.

POET.

And needn't; I write, not for scanners, but readers.

PROSODIAN.

'Twere wéll readers scánned every line which they reád.

POET.

When they do, I 'll begin to make régular feét;
Until then I 'll content me with beautiful verses.

CARLSRUHE, Jan. 17, 1856.

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