A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.

What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff! Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff! Pile on more logs and let them roll, And pass the humming wassail-bowl! The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell! Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell! Richard! say something rustic. Lo! The customary mistletoe, Prehensile on the apple-bough, Invites the usual kiss. And now Cathartic hellebore should be A cure for imbecility. Now holly-berries have begun To blush for Women That Have Done. The farmer sticks his stuffy goose! Come, come, you grow a little loose; That's Michaelmas; you must remember That Michaelmas is in September! Northward the swallow sweeps his wing. No, no! the bird arrives in spring! Such knowledge fits the country clown; We've better things to note in town. What's Nature's lore compared with women's? For this enigma go to S-m-ns; He is the —— Yes, I am, I know, The devil of a Romeo! Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits! Their music beats at Heaven's gates. What Bodley wight will sing a stave To match their strumming? I would have The manly bass of Hobbes's voice; But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice. George! you've a baritone at need. Alas! my famous Keynotes lead To Discords. I've a little thing Of Resurrection. Shall I sing? Please do; but à propos of what? I cannot say, unless de bottes.