Yet e'en at this low rate your worth may be seen ;

And to you as an heirloom, all heirlooms must bow, For being but part of a dress of a queen,

You are equal to just 'Half a Sovereign' now.

'Twas natural to steal ye; ah! who could resist! Common gallantry bids one lay hands on the gear; But as stockings like these are so apt to be missed,

A watch should be kept on each 'clock' it is clear.

Be still handed down !-But my Muse, ere she's dizzy, Would sing of a living queen-(sing her, sweet Muse). Who, though she may ne'er wear the stockings of Lizzy, For England's proud glory, may 'tread in her shoes.'

1837.

HER MAJESTY'S EXCURSION TO BRIGHTON.

THOUGH to London I come not again,

Though I ne'er should to Windsor repair;

To Brighton I go on my pen,

(As a witch on her stick) through the air.

So away, and away, and away!
A certain most beautiful pair,

Are visible, each like a ray,

In fancy before I get there.

A beautiful, beautiful pair!

Aha! shall I mention their names !

Why that might plunge into despair

Some millions of damsels and dames.
Oh, no! what a fib have I sung ;

It would rather compel me to mention
Some millions of belles old and young,
Which somewhat exceeds my intention.

A beautiful pair!' why, the phrase
May describe any feminine twain

That one anywhere meets in these days,

For I swear that they're none of 'em plain.

The words may describe any two,
Stout, slender, elongate, or short,

That the eye of a lover may view

Within five hundred miles of the Court.

The pair that I mean-shall I print

Their titles at length, with their claims?
Oh, no-and the reason I hint ;

Hem! I never once heard of their names.
No matter; to Brighton we'll go on-
The prospect grows dazzlingly near,
And surely the stars never shone
So bright as the eyes that are here.

To Brighton !-let Margate bewail,
And Harrowgate give up the ghost;
And the chalk cliffs of Dover turn pale,
And Ramsgate retire from the coast;

Let Cheltenham deepen her springs

With the flood of salt tears she must shed ; And Worthing and Tunbridge take wings, And Hastings bow down its green head.

Yes, Brighton eclipses them all;

For look on this vision outspread;

Can fancy such colours recall,

From the splendor of dreams that are fled !

The fairies have dropt upon earth

And fashioned this exquisite scene,

To welcome with music and mirth

The approach of Old England's young Queen!

Do

you hear-do you hear how they shout? Their souls spoke aloud in that burstDo you see how they're running about, Each striving to outstrip the first? See here, too, how patient they stand;

That loyal old man how he limps-
This urchin with flow'rs in his hand-
All glad if they get but a glimpse.

Just glance at the road: what a line
Of light is drawn out to the eye !
How tasteful, how brilliant, how fine,
Are the rainbow-like tints we descry.
That path is the path for a queen ;
That arch is triumphal indeed;

Love breathes from each flower of the scene,
And kindles with beauty each weed.

From hundreds and hundreds of nooks
You may see eager eyes shining out,
Old faces with youth in their looks,
Young lips that will smile as they pout.
Not an eye will know slumber serene,
Not a lip will reward the caresser,

If the eye get no view of the Queen,

And the lips may not breathe a 'God bless her!'

She comes-yes, her Majesty comes !

Hark now to the shouts that arise ; Though all the musicians beat drums,

Those shouts would soar up to the skies.

Ah! now what a feeling of pride

Swells high in each hope-beating heart; The people stand fast side by side,

As though of each other a part.

Yes-each to the other is bound

By a sympathy subtle and vast; And they felt love is not a mere sound

As the Queen of their Love slowly passed. For then had the splendour no spell

Like the bright hue of health on that cheek, And no shout could to them speak so well As the silent lips seeming to speak.

They see where fine carriages throng,
The archways with dahlias entwined,
The horsemen careering along,

The platforms with fair ladies lined;
They view the magnificent stir,

The mingling of simple and wise

But the Queen! they have eyes but for her, And their hearts now look out of their eyes.

They hear the all rapturous roar

That drowns the hoarse cry on the strand, And they hear a gay air, which is more,

From good Admiral D.'s private band.
Back, bands, to your camps or your ships !
In vain on your spirits you call,

For they fancy the Queen's smiling lips
Are breathing a greeting to all.