They picked my "Locke," to me far more
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,

Without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift,
Another they conceal,

For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"
As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,

Where late he stood elated;

But, what is strange, my "Pope " himself
Is excommunicated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose-a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon;

Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"
My "Bunyan" has been gone

My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,
My "Taylor" too must fail;
To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,
In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior," sought, but could not see
The "Hood" so late in front;

And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"
Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
Yet could not "Tickell" touch;
And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"
And surely mickle's much.

The Art of Book-Keeping

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,

My sorrows to excuse,

To think I cannot read my "Reid,"
Nor even use my Hughes."

To "West," to "South," I turn my head,
Exposed alike to odd jeers;

For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,
I ask 'em for my "Rogers."

They took my 66 Horne "-and "Horne Tooke" too,
And thus my treasures flit;

I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,

The flames that it has lit.

My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,

If I survive its doom;

How many a bard I doted on

Was swept off-with my

"Broome."

My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
"My 'Livy' has eloped!"

My life is wasting fast away-
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I fixed a lock on "Grey,"
There's grey upon my locks.

I'm far from young-am growing pale

I see my "Butter" fly;

And when they ask about my ail,

"Tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns,

And thus my griefs divide;

For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"
And eased my "Akenside."

821

But all I think I shall not say,

Nor let my anger burn;

For as they never found me "Gay,"

They have not left me "Sterne."

Laman Blanchard.

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

BY A STUTTERING LOVER

I HAVE found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,
I have found where the rattlesnakes bub-bub-breed;
Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,
And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song

Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale; Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long, Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pippole;

But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke

At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pippip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,

You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately raccoon; And then, did-did-dear, together we'll stray

To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well,

And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish) To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel

ican swallow the 1-1-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

Unknown.

A Nocturnal Sketch

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun-one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane, Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;-
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads.
And sleepers waking, grumble-" Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-

But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,

823

And that she hears-what faith is man's!-Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:

White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

Thomas Hood.

LOVELILTS

THINE eyes, dear one, dot dot, are like, dash, what?
They, pure as sacred oils, bless and anoint

My sin-swamped soul which at thy feet sobs out,
O exclamation point, O point, O point!

Ah, had I words, blank blank, which, dot, I've not, I'd swoon in songs which should'st illume the dark With light of thee. Ah, God (it's strong to swear) Why, why, interrogation mark, why, mark?

Dot dot dot dot. And so, dash, yet, but nay!

My tongue takes pause; some words must not be said, For fear the world, cold hyphen-eyed, austere, Should'st shake thee by the throat till reason fled.

One hour of love we've had. Dost thou recall
Dot dot dash blank interrogation mark?

The night was ours, blue heaven over all

Dash, God! dot stars, keep thou our secret dark!

Marion Hill.

JOCOSA LYRA

IN our hearts is the Great One of Avon

Engraven,

And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.

But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,

And we long in the valley to follow

Apollo.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,

Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;