130

MOCK MODESTY.

Poor Y., a musician with scraps of a voice,
Is declared by the Club undeniably clever ;-
In fact, I imagine the Club would rejoice

Could he warble away at its Collard for ever.
He mildly but firmly denies he can sing ;

And he blushes when any one tries to encore him ; It seems, he asserts, a most marvellous thing

That the Peerage admire and the Public adore

him.

Poor Z. is a poet-a promising bard

But is under that curse of the poet's condition Which doometh him—struggle he never so hard— To ignore the delights of a second edition. He owns a great army of pressmen as friends,

And the notices penned on his labours are glowing.
Those choice gems of intellect make him amends
For the coldness the masses at large have been
showing.

Our nature has phases most comic to meet,
But I vow and protest the absurdest and oddest

Is found when humility covers conceit

And inordinate vanity apes being modest. Our Club is the brightest and best ever seen,

For our Club is composed of intelligent fellows ;—

But, somehow or other, they look very mean

When they live upon puffs out of other men's bellows.

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

ARK how Corydon and Chloe
Greet us with a merry song!
I'll be Strephon-you be Zoe;
Let us join their giddy throng.

In the mead or by the grotto
Dwell with me, love, à la Watteau.

When our daily work is over,
(Only work to suit the lazy!)
Be it ours to live in clover-

Or in buttercup-or daisy.

Far niente be our motto ;

Dream with me, love, à la Watteau.

Fast the dancers go and faster-
Arlecchino in the middle.-
Perched aloft, as ballet-master,
Pierrot nimbly scrapes the fiddle.
Would you miss the gay ridotto?
Dance with me, love, à la Watteau.

132

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

Come, a carol! Sure 'twere pity
Leaving incomplete the frolic;
Sing some old Parisian ditty,

Pseudo-classico-bucolic ;

Light as Offenbach or Flotow,
Chant with me, love, à la Watteau.

When the night shall close around us—
When the dance and song are quiet-

We shall have a supper found us
Of the best Italian diet.-

Maccaroni and risotto

Eat with me, love, à la Watteau.

SEPTEMBER IN TOWN.

QUMMER is ended, and Autumn is hereThough for the present we're not very far in

it.

Oysters are back again-awfully dear:

Still they are back, for the month has an R in it. Leaves will be shortly beginning to fall

Thick o'er the Parks as the snow on the Jura lies. When shall I fly-if I can fly at all

Far from the bricks and the mortar to ruralise?

Nobody here to be met by or meet ;

Long have I grown of the terrible truth aware; Long have I wandered in square and in street,

Desolate now as the walls of Balclutha were.

Blame not the bard if a desert so bare

Pains him to think of it-hurts him to speak of it.

Pity the plaint of his utter despair ;

"Oh! for the country, if only a week of it."

134

SEPTEMBER IN TOWN.

Barely a line in a day can I write ;
Barely a line, either prosy or lyrical.
Dozens, when London is full, I indite-
Pleasantly morbid or mildly satirical.
Trained in the country a poet should be ;—
Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and ever so many were.

Why not at once make a poet of me ?—

Somebody-take me—directly—to anywhere!