(A Last Appeal.)

I.

REFRACTORY again,

My little--not exactly busy--B?

Well, you're a beauty, any one can see,

To call yourself a brain!

II.

I've tried repeated raps,

As Mr Home and other media do;

But there's no getting spirits out of you;--

You 're out of them, perhaps?

III.

It's not an easy thing

To grow poetic on a winter night,

So come along and let us take a flight

For the Pierian Spring.

WANTED, A SINGER.

Nay, fashion the verse to a knightly

strain,

And sing of some warlike band;

Of chivalry seeking a battle-plain

And perishing sword in hand.

I feel--whenever I hear you sing--

So decided a taste for that kind of thing.

H! sing me a song of the wild, wide sea,

Of the peril of rocks and storms--

How mariners bold as bold can be

Face Death in a hundred forms

Methinks--whenever I hear you sing--

That I rather should relish that kind

of thing.

But can you not carol a heart-felt lay,

On the pleasures and pains of love--

A melody soft as a breeze in May,

And pure as the skies above?

I think--whenever I hear you sing--

That there may be a charm in that kind of thing.

Come, chirrup me gaily a drinking-stave,

Of the bowl and its deep delights--

A hymn to old Bacchus, the god that gave

Such mirth to our festive nights.

But stop--why trouble yourself to sing,

As I know I am good at that kind of thing?

ANTICIPATIONS.

I AM thirty to-day, and my health

Will be drunk at our family party,

Where prophecies touching my wealth

And my fame will be fluent and hearty.

Then Fancy, excited by themes

That are born of the wine and the dinner,

May bring back belief in the dreams

That I dream'd as a hopeful beginner.

Ah! my ballads, my songs, how I 've yearn'd

For the time to collect you and edit

A book that perhaps would have earn'd,

Not a name, but a quantum of credit.

I'd christen it "Sweets for the Sweet,"

Or "The Lyrics and Lays of a Lover;

And Simmonds's Poems Complete,

Should be printed in gold on the cover.

I have long'd for the pleasures that gold

Can procure--and I freely confess it:

(For avarice grows, we are told,

As the ipsa pecunia crescit.)

If I had but a fortune--oh, then

I could finish my course pretty gaily,

With lots of the cleverest men

In my circle to dine with me daily.

T should give up my bachelor life

When I met with a girl to adore me:

With riches and fame and a wife,

What a path would be open before me!

My bliss would be trebly secure,

And my future unclouded and sunny.

She'd love me for love, I am sure:

And, if not, she could love me for money!

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

HAVE a friend in Eaton Place--

A very wealthy man--

Whose house is one I love to grace

As often as I can.

His meats are always of the best,

His wines are rich and rare;

A footman, elegantly drest,

Keeps watch behind my chair.

I like the meats--I love the wine--

(For, give me leave to say,

'Tis very seldom that I dine

In that expensive way.)

But what is gold and silver plate,

And what is dainty fare?

They cannot make me tolerate

The man behind my chair.

Perchance I venture on a pun,

A quip, or else a crank;

Amongst my auditors is one

Whose face remains a blank.

I hear the table in a roar,

Loud laughter fills the air;

But no--it simply seems to bore

The man behind my chair.

I talk about my Lady This,

Or else my Lady That;

Sometimes an Honourable Miss

Comes in extremely pat.

I quote the Earl of So-and-So,

Of Such-and-Such a square;

But, socially, I feel below

The man behind my chair.

Upon the summit of ipy crown

I have a trifling patch:

A little white amidst the brown,

An opening in the thatch.

From all my fellow-men but one

I hide my loss of hair:

He sees it though; I cannot shun

The man behind my chair.

Some day, should Fortune only smile

Upon my low estate,

I mean to feed in such a style

As few can emulate.

Should ever such a lot be mine,

I solemnly declare

That I will banish, when I dine,

The man behind my chair.

THE OLD WAG.

Air-"Gee, ho, Dobbin!"

I ACHIEVED my success, as a young diner-out,

Through my great conversational talents, no doubt;

For of humour and wit I was blest with a store,

And I kept the whole table, by Jove, in a roar

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

How the company grinn'd at my waggery, oh!

You could never extort a remark out of me

Which was not overflowing with quaint repartee.

And, when people thought proper to cavil or carp

At a notion of mine--I was down on them sharp

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

For I crush'd them at once with my waggery, oh!

Among persons of genius the tone that I took

Was a mixture of Jerrold and Theodore Hook.

And a great fund of anecdote, varied in style,

I employ'd among duffers to get up a smile

At my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

There was often a yell at my waggery, oh!

But those days of delight are for ever gone by,

And I can't get a meal by my wit, if I try,

For care and old age, I am sorry to say,

Have destroy'd my high spirits, and bolted away

With my waggery, ah!

My waggery, oh!

I shall never see more of my waggery, oh!

ETIQUETTE.

MONTH ago I bought a book,

Brimful of good advice,

('Twas labell'd sixpence, but they took

A somewhat smaller price.)

The cover carried signs of age,

But ne'er can I forget *

The name upon the title-page--

'Twas "Hints on Etiquette."

You can't conceive the change of tone

That volume wrought in me;

Or what an alter'd man I've grown,

From what I used to be.

This mark'd improvement in my ways

Compels me to regret

I never heard in earlier days

Of "Hints on Etiquette."

'Tis true I cling to Bass's pale,

But I redeem the fault,

By asking for "a glass of ale,"

Not "half a pint of malt."

Of old the pewter pot conferr'd

A zest on "heavy wet."

But that was long before I heard

Of "Hints on Etiquette."

When dining out, in early life,

I often used to stoop

To taking peas up with my knife,

And asking twice for soup.

I'm fast improving, though I doubt

If I am perfect yet

In all the feeding-laws set out

In "Hints on Etiquette."

I don for evening parties now

The whitest of cravats;

The blackest suit; and, on my brow

The neatest of crush-hats.

And yet, I was the oddest kind

Of guy you ever met,

Before I chanced to give my mind

To "Hints on Etiquette."