CONFUSION!

WROTE a note an hour ago

To Snip of Piccadilly.

"Dear Sir," said I, "to dun me so Is obstinate and silly."

Referring to an old account,

I begged him to be lenient;
For I would pay the small amount
As early as convenient.

I wrote a note an hour ago
To sweet Matilda Marshall
(To whom, as many of you know,
The bard is very partial).

I crammed the paper full of love,

Four pages full of passion;

And cooed like any turtle-dove

In true poetic fashion.

K

146

CONFUSION!

Capricious Fate (who ever gloats
When bards get into messes)
Contrived that these impressive notes
Got mixed in their addresses.
Ay, that's the trouble-there's the rub:
The horrible suggestion :-
While sweet Matilda gets a snub,

To Snip I've popped the question.

AN UNEQUAL MATCH.

MET a damsel in a dream,

With sunny locks-ah, such a gleam!

With eyes that pierced me through and through

At ev'ry glance—ah, such a hue !

In waking hours my dream again

Returns to bring me joy and pain.—
Ah, why was I a lowly churl,
And she the offspring of an Earl?

I vainly prayed that cruel Fate
Would lift me to some higher state-
Some situation far above

The one in which I nursed my love.

I dared not breathe my love aloud;
His Lordship was austere and proud.—
Ah, why was I a lowly churl,

And she the offspring of an Earl?

148

AN UNEQUAL MATCH.

To share my meek and humble cot

Would scarce have seemed her fitting lot.
Those haughty oligarchs, they say,
Insist on dining ev'ry day.

She might have deemed it infra dig.
To milk my cow or tend my pig.-
Ah, why was I a lowly churl,
And she the offspring of an Earl?

It would have been my doom, no doubt,
Sometimes to be invited out;
To feast with noblemen, perchance,
Or join a Countess in the dance.
My manly form, I must confess,
Would be at sea in evening dress.-
Ah, why was I a lowly churl,
And she the offspring of an Earl?

To-night-as bedward I repair,
And slowly scale my garret stair—
I mean to pray, "O Sleep! restore
The dream you gave me once before.
Bring back my love-bring back my prize;
Her form and face, her locks and eyes ;—
Make me the offspring of an Earl,
And her a lowly peasant girl."

T

THE SUPER'S DREAM.

'VE played at the West, and I've played in the

City;

But never got on with my managers yet.
On my honour I think-and I think it's a pity-
They're jealous and stingy, the whole of the set.
They allow I perform in a praiseworthy manner,
And own I'm a fairly respectable man,

Yet insist upon sending me on with a banner;-
And why ?-Let them answer me that, if they can.

And why at the tail of my craft should I linger,
On salaries less than it suits me to name;

When I feel that one flourish from Fate's little finger
At once could promote me to riches and fame?
I behold in my visions a dim panorama,

Processions heroic in panoply grand ;—

And in all the great parts in the classical drama
My own alter ego--myself second-hand!