Lady M. . . . . Alla fonte tornava,

Trovò Morgana, ch' intorno alla soglia
Faceva un ballo, e ballando cantava.
Più leggier non si volge al vento foglia
Di ciò chi quella donna si voltava.'

Boiardo, Orlando Innamorata.

WHO can sound the Sapphic shell

Like the Lesbian L. E. L.?

Saucy sparrow! cease such jargon-
Sappho's self is Lady Morgan.

'Suckled by the Muses,' well
As Ann de Vignes, was L. E. L.

'Suckled!'-born too, in the bargain,
Of the Nine, was Lady Morgan.

Far from Brompton to Bow-bell
Swells the fame of L. E. L.

Fame from Stamboul to Stillorgan
Blows the trump of Lady Morgan.

Nature did herself excel

In the gifted L. E. L.

Fatal as the glance of Gorgon
Is the eye of Lady Morgan.

Genius has no parallel

For the soul of L. E. L.

Genius-all, says Dr. Corgan,

Centred shines in Lady Morgan.

Della Crusca's glories fell

At the feet of L. E. L.

Aphra Behn, and Moore are o'ergone
By the lyre of Lady Morgan.

Golden violets-who can smell
Their bright hues but L. E. L.?
Liberty's impassion'd organ
Is the pen of Lady Morgan.
Jerdan says, 'If they'd but sell,
Sure specs were works by L. E. L.'

At half-price were all my store gone,
None would lose by Lady Morgan.

Glory's most impulsive spell
Is the song of L. E. L.

Lafayette had ne'er to war gone,
But for note from Lady Morgan.

Churchyard cupids chime their knell
To the strains of L. E. L.

Lovers from La Trappe to Lurgan
Lisp the lays of Lady Morgan.

Swan-like, dying demoiselle

Sings a dirge from L. E. L.

A very cook made calembourg on

All-inspiring Lady Morgan.

Regent Street and proud Pall Mall
Venerate young L. E. L.

France-adored as Demogorgon,

In my 'France' is Lady Morgan.
Florence-my Castalian cell,
Halcyon home of L. E. L.

O'er 'Italy,' like shooting star gone,
Flares the fame of Lady Morgan.

Morgante mio! sylphid spell,
Morgan links with L. E. L.

Patronised as poets par'gon

Is L. E. L. by Lady Morgan.

From British bardesses now bear the belle
Learn'd Lady Morgan, lore-born L. E. L.

GLUGGITY GLUG.

A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor, good store,
And he had drunk stoutly at supper;
He mounted his horse in the night at the door,
And he sat with his face to the crupper:

'Some rogue,' quoth the friar, 'quite dead to remorseSome thief, whom a halter will throttle

Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,

While I was engaged at the bottle,

Which went gluggity, gluggity, glug, glug, glug!'

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale,
"Twas the friar's road home straight and true, Sir;
But, when spurr'd, a horse follows his nose, not his tail,
So he scamper'd due north like the deuce, Sir.

'This new mode of docking,' the friar then said,
'I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill;
And 'tis cheap,-for he never can eat off his head,
While I am engaged at the bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity, glug, glug, glug!

The steed made a stop; in a pond he had got,

He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, "Tis strange headless horses should trot;

But to drink with their tails is amazing!'

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle;

Quoth he, 'The head's found, for I'm under his nose; I wish I were over a bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity, glug, glug, glug!'

AN ELEGY

On the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say,

That had she lived a twelvemonth more

She had not died to-day.

A FRAGMENT OF SCIENCE.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

Samuel Butler, born at Strensham, in Worcestershire, in 1612, is best known to modern readers as the author of 'Hudibras,' a clever satirical and witty poem, in which he endeavoured to cast