ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,

Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd

A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside his place the God of Wit,

Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,

Apollo for a star he'd quit,

And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,

He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord,

Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag'em

With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum

Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,

For, rest his soul, he'd rather be

Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.

THE KISS.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss
I taught you one delicious night,
When, turning epicures in bliss,

We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along,

And let your lips in murmurs moveAh, no!-again-that kiss was wrongHow can you be so dull, my love?

"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl repliedAnd in her milky arms she caught me"How can you thus your pupil chide;

You know 't was in the dark you taught me !"

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET-(ROBERT
SOUTHEY.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep,
The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough,

To make a bard at least absurd,
And give his readers quantum suff.,
He took to praising George the Third:

And now, in virtue of his crown,

Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter;
Like Donellan of bad renown,

Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he
Felt about leaving honor's track;

And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer,

Put to his works a finis thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter
Than did his quartos upon us!

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK,

Called the "Book of Follies."

This journal of folly 's an emblem of me;

But what book shall we find emblematic of thee?
Oh! shall we not say thou art Love's Duodecimo?
None can be prettier, few can be less, you know.
Such a volume in sheets were a volume of charms;
Or if bound, it should only be bound in our arms!

THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN.

They tell us that Woman was made of a rib
Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side;
But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib,
And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied.

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind,
With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span;
And when Nature cut off this appendage behind,
Why-then woman was made of the tail of the man.

If such is the tie between women and men,
The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf;
For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again,
And makes a most damnable ape of himself!

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail,
Every husband remembers the original plan,
And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail,
Why he leaves her behind him as much as he can.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower;
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think-in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe!

SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,

Is to buy

up at the price he is worth,

And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT.

REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

WHILE Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give.
See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust.

The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone.

ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OF THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE.

YE politicians, tell me, pray,

CHARLES LAMB.

Why thus with woe and care rent?
This is the worst that you can say,

Some wind has blown the wig away,
And left the Hair Apparent.

TO PROFESSOR AIREY,

On his marrying a beautiful woman.

SIDNEY SMITH.

AIREY alone has gained that double prize,
Which forced musicians to divide the crown;
His works have raised a mortal to the skies,

His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down.

ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

"THEY say Ward has no heart, but I deny it;
He has a heart-and gets his speeches by it."

EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON.

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING

"SAD IS MY VERSE, YOU SAY, AND YET NO TEAR.'"'

THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt,
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why should we weep, I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more,

And much, alas! I think he needs it-
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore,

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

The rhymes, without the aid of magic,
May once be read-but never after;
Yet their effect 's by no means tragic,

Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain?
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us you'll read them o'er again.

WINDSOR POETICS.

On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and
Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor.

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptered thing-
It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king;
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life;
Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain,
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again.

Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both to mold a George?