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The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill !)
Are lowering fast—(what! higher still ?)-
And—(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)—
Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may–rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-
And scarce a pin's head difference which-
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And if this rage for traveling lasts,
If Cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To

gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands-
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees-
If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,

To glide among the Pyramids---
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home"

Among the Blacks of Carolina,
Or, flying to the eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China.

ON FACTOTUM NED.

THOMAS MOORE.

HERE lies Factotum Ned at last:

Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pase'd

In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out

Whatever statesmen did or saidIf not exactly brought about,

Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap if Russia went to war,

’T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar

(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news—no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-
From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.
When George, alarm'd for England's creed,

Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd—who advised the deed ?

Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.
For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This,

To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,

And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 't Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't.

'T was thus, al doing and all knowing,

Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust bim-had his finger.

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FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY -IN IRELAND.

THOMAS MOORE.
What a time since I wrote l-I'm a sad naughty girl-
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,

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My gowns, so divine !--there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words "superbe," " magnifique,"
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd—I forget-à la-something which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's :
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyché and curls à la braise.-
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite à la Française,
With my bonnet-so beautiful l-high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.
Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera-mercy, my ears !

Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one; " This must be the music,” said he, “ of the spears,

For I'm curst if each note of it does n't run through one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his book 's to make out),
'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about;
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it ! If, when of age, every man in the realm

Had a voice like old Laïs, and chose to make use of it! No-never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts,

Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,

And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

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But, the dancing—ah parlez moi, Dolly, de ça-
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty—such grace-oh ye sylphs of romance !

Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance

Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias !
Fanny Bias in Flora—dear creature !—you'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,

And she only par complaisance touches the ground. And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels

Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music—so softly its cadences die, So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then-you've a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge !

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in),
They call it the Play-house-I think—of Saint Martin:
Quite charming--and very religious—what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly:

And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;-
Here Bégrand, who shines in this scriptural path,

As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath

In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic !

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But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we're at, day and night;
And, besides, ere I finish, I think you 'll be glad
Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where—I doubt
If I well can describe there are cars that set out
From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,
And rattle you down, Doll-you hardly know where.
These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through
This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two.
Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether

You 'll venture down with him-you smile—'tis a match; In an instant you 're seated, and down both together

Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch;
Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd
On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark’d;
The impatience of some for the perilous flight,
The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,
That there came up-imagine, dear Doll, if you can-
A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man,
With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft),
The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,
As Hyænas in love may be famcied to look, or
A something between Abelard and old Blucher!
Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head
(Rather bald, but so warlike !) in bad English said,
“Ah! my dear-if Ma’mselle vil bo so very good-
Just for von little course"—though I scarce understood
What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

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