A SLAVE TO CIRCUMSTANCES.

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Unhappy in his wedded life,

He's rather given, I believe,

To beat his children and his wife
From dawn until the dewy eve.
But if his troubles (not a few)

Have led poor Smith to such a pitch,
Small weaknesses like this are due

To "circumstances over which,

Et cetera!"

He has a tendency to drink

(Not only when he dines or sups); His language, too, is on the brink Of "shady," when he's in his cups.

He wanders idly o'er the town,

And speaks of dying in a ditch; And, when he does, he'll set it down To "circumstances over which,

Et cetera!"

MY BIRD.

ONG ago I loved, alas !

Loved a lass and very truly.

On a day it came to pass
That I made an offer duly.

Sinking on my knees I fired

Sighs and simpers in a volley ;— Fondly, madly I aspired

To the hand of pretty Polly.

Rapture, ecstasy, delight!

"Yes" was all my Mary uttered;

But a mist was o'er my sight,

And my heart with ardour fluttered. Yet within a little week,

Urged by frenzy or by folly,

MY BIRD.

She returned the little things

Sent as proofs of my affection;

Chains, and photographs, and rings,
Rather a unique collection!
Then my heart grew sick and sad.-
Flirting may be very jolly;

Still my goings on were bad
As regarded pretty Polly.

Conscience, that ill-omened bird,

Morning, noon and even haunts me;

Day and night its cry is heard,

And the ghostly echo taunts me.

When I'm brooding all alone,

Sulky, sad, and melancholy,

Still I hear its parrot tone
Ever crowing "pretty Polly!"

M

177

GOOD COMPANY.

evening in the winter time

I love to nestle near the fire, At leisure polishing a rhyme,

Or dozing to my heart's desire. Then, let it blow, or snow, or freeze,

The rain may stream along the street;

I little care while well at ease

Within my snug and safe retreat.

Should rhyme and reverie grow flat,
I take a volume off my shelf;
And institute a cosy chat

Between its author and myself.
Should he become a dreary guest,

I straight invite a dozen more (My library is quite a nest

Of ancient and of modern lore).

GOOD COMPANY.

I call my Shelley or my Pope,

My Burns, my Dryden, or my Keats;
Or, should I seek a higher scope,

My Milton here my Shakespeare meets.
For prose I summon Dicky Steele,
Mild Addison, or burly Sam;
Or, coming later down, appeal

To Hazlitt, Hunt, or Charley Lamb.

In Space's and in Time's despite,

They come from ev'ry clime and age.
With some I talk for half a night,
With some for only half a page.
Such clever folks!-I fancy, though,

My pow'rs of thought their own excel;
For they have told me all they know,

And all I know I never tell.

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