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There were more things in Mrs. Gurton's eye,

Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

6

No doubt the Editor of Notes and Queries'

Or Things not generally known' could tell

That word's real force-my only lurking fear is

That the great Gammer “didna ken hersel":

(I've precedent, yet feel I owe apology

For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon

For making this unwarranted digression,

Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary's garden :

$

And beg to send, with every expression

Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,

For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a 'crumpled Horn,'

(Living next me, upon the selfsame story,) And ever, 'twixt the midnight and the morn,

He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.

The tune is good; the habit p'raps romantic; But tending, if pursued, to drive one's neighbours

frantic.

And now,—at this unprecedented hour,

When the young Dawn is “trampling out the

stars,”

I hear that youth-with more than usual power

And pathos-struggling with the first few

bars.

And I do think the amateur cornopean

Should be put down by law—but that's perhaps

Utopian.

Who knows what “things unknown” I might

have “ bodied

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Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?

But don't I know that when my friend has

plodded

Through the first verse, the second will ensue?

Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely

Send the beforenamed book-and am yours most

sincerely.

ODE-'ON A DISTANT PROSPECT'

OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

Now the “ rosy morn appearing”

Floods with light the dazzled heaven;

And the schoolboy groans on hearing

That eternal clock strike seven :

Now the waggoner is driving

Towards the fields his clattering wain;

Now the blue-bottle, reviving,

Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful :

Wearily I stretch my legs,

Dress, and settle to my plateful

Of (perhaps inferior) eggs. Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,

Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;"

D

And I have a dismal presage

That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,

Smoked through silver-mounted pipes

Then how my patrician nose would

Turn up at the thought of “swipes !"

Ale,—occasionally claret,

Graced my luncheon then;—and now

I drink porter in a garret,

To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,

And I doff my hat and gloves,

No sweet bird is there to “cheep and

Twitter twenty million loves ;"

No dark-ringleted canaries

Sing to me of “hungry foam ;"

No imaginary “Marys"

Call fictitious « cattle home."

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