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There were more things in Mrs. Gurton's eye,
Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.
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
And now,—at this unprecedented hour,
When the young Dawn is “trampling out the
I hear that youth-with more than usual power
And pathos-struggling with the first few
And I do think the amateur cornopean
Should be put down by law—but that's perhaps
Who knows what “things unknown” I might
have “ bodied
Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?
But don't I know that when my friend has
Through the first verse, the second will ensue?
Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely
Send the beforenamed book-and am yours most
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;"
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 !"
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."