I'Ve Lost My --------

EELER! hast thou found my treasure,--

Hast thou seen my vanish'd Fair?

Flora of the raven ringlets,

Flora of the shining hair?

Tell me quick, and no palaver,

For I am a man of heat--

Hast thou seen her, X 100?

Hast thou view'd her on thy beat?

Mark'd, I say, her fairy figure

In the wilderness of Bow?

Traced her lilliputian foot-prints

On the sands of Rotten Row?

Out, alas! thou answ'rest nothing,

And my senseless anger dies;

Who would look for "speculation"

In a boil'd potato's eyes?

Foggy Peeler! purblind Peeler!

Wherefore walk'st thou in a dream?--

Ask a plethoric black beetle

Why it walks into the cream!

Why the jolly gnats find pleasaunce

In your drowsy orbs of sight,--

Why besotted daddy long-legs

Hum into the nearest light,--

'Tis his creed, "non mi ricordo,"

And he wanders in a fog;

As that other peel, her--

Baceous, wanders in your glass of grog;--

Ah, my Flora! (graceless chit!) O

Pearl of all thy peerless race!

Where shall fancy find one fit, O

Fit to fill thy vacant place?

Who can be the graceful ditt-o

Ditto to that form and face?

Hence, then, sentimental twaddle!

Love, thy fetters I will fly--

Friendship is not worth a boddle,

Lost, alas! I've lost--my Skye.

THE VIII CRUSADE.

(Preach'd by Puck ye Poete against Paint and Pommade.)

DO you wish that your face should

be fair?

That your cheek should be rosy

and plump?

Morning noontide and night

Take a dip in the bright

Wave that flows from the spout of

the pump,--

From a Pump!--

Not a dump

Do we care for the lily

Pick'd in Piccadilly,

Or grown by the "Camphorate Lump."

Do you sigh for ambrosial hair?

For clustering ringlets to match?

Little goose!

To the deuce

With pommades--learn the use

Of the BRUSH, and you'll soon have a thatch

That shall 'catch'

The moustachio'd amasser

Of Rowland's Macassar,

(At twenty-five shillings a batch).

Is it ivory teeth you desire?

A set that no dentist may trammel?

To Rowland's O-dont-o

Cry, "No that we won't O!

"It softens the precious enamel!"

(That Schamyl

Sends packing, confound it,

To the Sultan Mahound. (It

'S au naturel, perch'd on a Camel))

Then toy not with powder and paste!

Sweet nymphs, they are deadliest foes;

No Piver persuade you--

No Rowland invade you--

In peace let each dimple repose

Where it grows!

When he shows

You his Kalydor Lotion

Reply "We've a notion

"It takes all the skin off one's nose!"

(As he goes)

Add "There's nothing can beat your's

"For blist'ring the features

"But, 'Atkinson's Milk of the Rose!"'

IN MEDIÆVOS.

F you love to wear

An unlimited extent of hair

Push'd frantically back behind a pair

Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy--

And peripatate by star light

To gaze upon some far light

Till you've caught an aggravated catarrh right

In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye,--

Or if you're given to the style

Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle,

And fancy all the while, you're taking "an earnest view" of things;

Making Rousseau a hero,

Mahomet better than Nero,

And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings:

Or if you write sonnets,

In (and out of) Time and on its

Everlasting "works of art and genius" (cobweb wreath'd!)

And fly off into rapture

At some villanous old picture

Not one atom like nature

Nor any human creature, that ever breath'd,--

Some Amazonian Vixen

Of indescribable complexion

And hideous all conception to surpass;

And actually prefer this abhorrence

To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence----

Why then--I think that you must be an Ass!