(Imitated From Martial.)

A friend I met, some half hour since-- "Good-morrow, Jack!" quoth I; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frowned, nodded, and passed by; When up came Jem--"Sir John, your Slave!" "Ah, James; we dine at eight-- Fail not--(low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait." The King can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.

THE CONFESSION.

There's somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me-- This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Tho' busy flatterers swarm around-- I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast, It's that confounded cucumber I've eat and can't digest.

EPIGRAM.

BRAVE L----, so says a knight of the pen, "Has exposed himself much at the head of his men," As his men ran away without waiting to fight, To expose himself there's to be first in the flight. Had it not been as well, when he saw his men quail, To have stayed and exposed himself more at their tail? Or say, is it fair, in this noblest of quarrels, To suffer the chief to engross all the laurels? No! his men, so the muse to all Europe shall sing, Have exposed themselves fully as much as their king.

SONG.

I.

There sits a bird on yonder tree, More fond than Cushat Dove; There sits a bird on yonder tree, And sings to me of love. Oh! stoop thee from thine eyrie down! And nestle thee near my heart, For the moments fly, And the hour is nigh, When thou and I must part, My love! When thou and I must part.

II.

In yonder covert lurks a Fawn, The pride of the sylvan scene; In yonder covert lurks a Fawn, And I am his only queen; Oh! bound from thy secret lair, For the sun is below the west; No mortal eye May our meeting spy, For all are clos'd in rest, My love! Each eye is closed in rest.

III.

Oh, sweet is the breath of morn! When the sun's first beams appear; Oh! sweet is the shepherd's strain, When it dies on the listening ear; And sweet the soft voice which speaks The Wanderer's welcome home; But sweeter far By yon pale mild star, With our true Love thus to roam, My dear! With our own true Love to roam!

EPIGRAM.

EHEU FUGACES.

What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me! Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing I murmur, "O mihi præteritos!"

SONG.

'Tis sweet to think the pure ethereal being, Whose mortal form reposes with the dead, Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing, Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed!

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness I hear her voice, in still small accents tell Of realms of bliss, and never-fading brightness, Where those who lov'd on earth, together dwell.

Ah! yet a while, blest shade, thy flight delaying, The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer; To her rapt gaze, in visions bland displaying The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere!

Yet, yet remain! till freed like thee, delighted, She spurns the thraldom of encumbering clay; Then as on earth, in tenderest love united, Together seek the realms of endless day!

AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE.

THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye; There came a noble Knyghte, With his hauberke shynynge brighte, And his gallant heart was lyghte, Free and gaye; As I lay a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye.

As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree! There seem'd a crimson plain, Where a gallant Knyghte laye slayne, And a steed with broken rein Ran free, As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see!

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe; A lovely Mayde came bye, And a gentil youth was nyghe, And he breathed many a syghe And a vowe; As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne; No more a youth was there, But a Maiden rent her haire, And cried in sad despaire, "That I was borne!" As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar; There came a lovely childe, And his face was meek and mild, Yet joyously he smiled On his sire; As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire.

As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd upon a bier; That joyous smile was gone, And the face was white and wan, As the downe upon the Swan Doth appear, As I laye a-thynkynge--oh! bitter flow'd the tear!

As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on her breast With a thousand gorgeous dyes, While soaring to the skies, 'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, As to her nest; As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:-- "Follow, follow me away, It boots not to delay,"-- 'Twas so she seem'd to saye, "HERE IS REST!" T. I.

THE END.

MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.

Z67051188668.

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