You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green. At all that's right you'll joke; Your life will be a constant scene Of billiards and of smoke. With bad companions you'll consort, But oh, my son! although you must You will not be, I hope-I trust— Of course at prudence you will sneer, Be good, I won't say--that's severe; All rascally associates shun To bid you were too much, It asks no penetrative mind To know these fellows: when You meet them, you, unless you're blind, At once discern the men. The turgid lip, the piggish eye, The nose in form of hook, The rings, the pins, you tell them by, The vulgar flashy look. Spend every sixpence, if you please, But do not, I implore, Oh! do not go, my son, to these Vultures to borrow more. Live at a foolish wicked rate, SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE. PUNCH. Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green, Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene, Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge. Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees. Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose. Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete-except the nose. Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings). One of these services includes-its value to increase A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece. Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish-Soles, Cod, and Dace- Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white, The tails of twisted worsted-pale yellow, tipped with black. The Crown of Semiramide-complete, with false back hair; tow. Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat; Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower. Tower. Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks. Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box. WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE. PUNCH. OUR gracious Queen-long may she fill her throne- The Majesty of England-bless her heart!- And Cousin Germans have survived the view In our young days we little thought to see That British Royalty would ever share At a French Palace, French Imperial fare: Nor eat as we should have believed at school The croaking tenant of the marshy pool. At the Trois Frères we had not feasted then, As we have since, and hope to do again. This great event of course could not take place The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third From plaster nose three heavy drops of red. Of its proboscis-was that out of joint? While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear, TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Ir may be so-perhaps thou hast I will not blame thee for thy face, That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, In spite of all the cold world's scorn, Those eyes,-among thine elder friends No matter,-if a man can see, What more have eyes to do? Thy mouth-that fissure in thy face May be a very useful place I know thou hast a wife at home, That wife sits fearless by thy side, Above thy mantel is a hook,- She begged thee not to let it go, She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayer It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think And often in her calmer hours, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. Thy wretched infant turns his head And looks to meet the placid stare |