FAMILY POETRY.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day, Though line before I never wrote! "On what occasion ?" do you say?

OUR DICK HAS GOT A LONG-TAIL'D COAT!!

Not a coatee, which soldiers wear

Button'd up high about the throat,

But easy, flowing, debonair,

In short a civil long-tail'd coat.

A smarter you'll not find in town,
Cut by Nugee, that snip of note;
A very quiet olive brown

's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole,

The proud Hungarian, and the Croat, Yet Esterhazy, on the whole

Looks best when in a long-tail'd coat.

Lord Byron most admired, we know,
The Albanian dress, or Suliote,

But then he died some years ago,
And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat;

Or past all doubt the poet's theme

Had never been the "White Capote," Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream, The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat!

We also know on Highland kilt

Poor dear Glengarry used to dote,

And had esteem'd it actual guilt

I' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat!

No wonder 't would his eyes annoy,
Monkbarns himself would never quote
"Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray,"
Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat.

Jackets may do to ride or race,
Or row in, when one 's in a boat,
But in the boudoir, sure, for grace
There's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd coat.

Of course in climbing up a tree,

On terra-firma, or afloat,
To mount the giddy topmast, he

Would doff awhile his long-tail'd coat.

What makes you simper, then, and sneer?
From out your own eye pull the mote!
A pretty thing for you to jeer-

Haven't you, too, got a long-tail'd coat?

Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean,
Why, though too young to give a note,
Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen

's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin
Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat
O' Gorman Mahon, ere begin

To figure in a long-tail'd coat?

Suppose he goes to France-can he
Sit down at any table d'hôte,
With any sort of decency,

Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit,

There soon may be a sans culotte,
And Nugent's self may then admit
The advantage of a long-tail'd coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore,
In tower encircled by a moat,
The lion-hearted chieftain wore

A corselet for a long-tail'd coat;

Then ample mail his form embraced,
Not like a weasel or a stoat,
"Cribb'd and confined" about the waist,

And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat.

With beamy spear or biting ax,

To right and left he thrust and smote-
Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks
Fall from a modern long-tail'd coat!

More changes still! now, well-a-day!'
A few cant phrases learned by rote,
Each beardless booby spouts away,
A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!

Prates of the "March of Intellect"-
"The Schoolmaster." A Patriote
So noble, who could e'er suspect
Had just put on a long-tail'd coat?

Alack! alack! that every thick

Skull'd lad must find an antidote
For England's woes, because, like Dick,
He has put on a long-tail'd coat!

But lo! my rhyme 's begun to fail,
Nor can I longer time devote;
Thus rhyme and time cut short the tale,

The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

THE SUNDAY QUESTION.

THOMAS HOOD.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."-BUNYAN.

WHAT! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate!
Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket!

And hang a wooden notice up to state,

On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!
The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race,
Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case

Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens-so unlike the ones we dub

Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses-
Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub-
Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?
No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head-
No rum-nor gin-not even of a Monday-
The Lion is not carved-or gilt—or red,

And does not send out porter of a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under locks!

As if his spots would give contagious fevers! The Beaver close as hat within its box;

So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible-the Gnaw-way Rats The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday The Monkey tribe-the Family of Cats— We visit other families on Sunday

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy

What is the brute profanity that shocks
The super-sensitively serious feeling?
The Kangaroo-is he not orthodox

To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?
Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat,
Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi?
Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note
The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set?
What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret?

One thing is plain-it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-
But then the beasts are pious on these points,

For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?

Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race?

The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds-(whose theory allows

That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)— Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows

Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few,
Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,

And think when they are dismal they are pious:
Is 't possible that Pug's untimely fun

Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday ?-
Or perhaps some animal, no serious one,
Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offense have serious Fellows found

To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round,

And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt

The feathers in her head-at least till Monday;

Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt

A tract presented to be read on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged cloth

ing?

Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well

As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way

(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)