A POETICAI. COLUMN.

IN HONOUR OF MR. SIMPSON, M.C.

'We are sorry to learn that our old friend Simpson, the Master of the Ceremonies at Vauxhall Gardens for so many years, whose eccentricities have caused so much merriment to the public, and whose harmless habits and character have acquired for him, through a long life, the esteem of many, and, we believe, the dislike of none, died on Christmas Day. We have so often noticed his peculiarities in light paragraphs that we feel it but justice, in taking leave of him for ever, to add that his peculiarities were only such as good-nature and urbanity carried to an extreme might commit; and that, though they might have exposed him, as they often did expose him, to laughter, they did not, and could not, produce any worse feeling with respect to him than those which arose from a mixture of hilarity and kindness. But the joke has passed away, and the last impression made by poor Simpson is one of regret.'-Morning Herald.

AND he is gone! Then grieve Vauxhall !
For o'er thy brightness, like a pall,

The clouds of black misfortune fall;

Weep, oh ye singers,

Weep, waiters, lamplighters, and all

And call bell-ringers.

T

Mourn, ye musicians, grave and gay ;

Be mute, or but a requiem play ;
Ye vaulters, in your postures stay—
Ye firework-makers,

Put out the light; let no one pay,
Ye money-takers!

And oh lament, good Mr. Gye ;
And you, good Co., in union cry!
You hear the wintry breezes sigh

Through each bare tree—

Thus mourn the 'Royal property'

Its lost M.C.

Your brightest lamp's gone out to-night,
Your proudest rocket will not light,
Your comic singer takes his flight,
Your fowls are tough,

Your hock is hot, your port is white,
Your rack sad stuff.

Your horns are cracked, your fiddles squeak,
Your dancer had a sprain last week,

Your gallery-floor begins to creak,

Your tight-rope loosens ;

Your fête's proclaimed in each critique
A bore, a nuisance.

Your gayest path is chill and drear,
Your covered walks are wet, I fear;

Ev'n summer's self is winter here-
The leaves are dead,

And every dewdrop seems a tear,
By Pity shed.

So he is mourned, the X-M.C.
Politeness! Ah, it ceased to be
With him, who was Urbanity

In air, voice, feature!

The prince of pure Politeness he,
That simple creature.

Poor Simpson! though the fêtes were flat,
Or people rude, he smiled at that;

And still he only touched his hat

Through all the crowd;

He understood not 'tit for tat'—

To boors he bowed!

Filled with good-nature to the brim,
His hand upon his beaver's rim,
In every look, in every limb,

Sweet approbation,

Folks thought a reprimand from him
An obligation.

If vulgar brawlers in the throng

Annoyed the guests or spoiled the song, His hint that they indeed were wrong' Was so polite,

They muttered, as they moved along, 'Who would be right?'

Alas! when Death, the common foe,

Knocks at the door of Man & Co.,

Coolly inviting us to go

Though void of use,

How apt we are to answer 'No,'

And make excuse.

But Simpson-not of such was he;

When Death approached the kind M.C., And summoned him, 'midst Christmas glee, To yield his treasure,

He answered-Eminent Sir, great D.,

I come, with pleasure.'

Now to a Vauxhall grander far,
Where every lamp's a shining star—
The Elysian field, whose gate's ajar—
There sails this minute

Across the Styx a boat, a car—

And Simpson's in it.

He lands-and is elected there
M.C. of all that region fair;

And ghosts illustrious, spectres rare,
Are in a fuss,

The smile, the bow, the glance to share
Which ravished us.

The shadow of a cane bears he,
His ghost-hat touched eternally!
There walks he ever, fresh and free,

Through ceaseless summers;

And welcomes to the Property

King Death's new comers.

THE PROPER USE OF THE EYES.

Certes, the eyes were not to see with,

No more than wives were meant to be with,
Or milk was sent us to drink tea with.
Some sages hint they're meant to weep with,
Others to cast a glance, like sheep, with;
'Tis my belief they're meant to sleep with.

1837.