Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those
But wherefore yield me to despair,
While yet the poet's bosom glows,
While yet the dame is peerless fair!
Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time
Requite my passion and my truth,
And gather in their blushing prime
The roses of your youth!

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming :

They've hush'd the Minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast :
She comes-she's here-she's past-
May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

That never has known the Barber's shear

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear—
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was pass'd away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not list,
Or look away, and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married, but I sit here

Alone and merry at Forty Year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

SORROWS OF WERTHER.

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter ; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies,

Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person,

Went on cutting bread and butter.

A DOE IN THE CITY.

LITTLE KITTY LORIMER,

Fair, and young, and witty, What has brought your ladyship Rambling to the City?

"Where's the Didland Junction deed ?" Dauntlessly says KITTY.

"If you doubt my honesty,

Look at my receipt, Sir."

Up then jumps the old chief Clerk,
Smiling as he meets her.

KITTY at the table sits

(Whither the old Clerk leads her), "I deliver this," she says,

"As my act and deed, Sir."

When I heard these funny words
Come from the lips so pretty;
This, I thought, should surely be
Subject for a ditty.

What are ladies stagging it?

Sure, the more's the pity;

But I've lost my heart to her,
Naughty little KITTY.

THE LAST OF MAY.

(IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE IST.)

By fate's benevolent award,

Should I survive the day,

I'll drink a bumper with my lord
Upon the last of May.

That I may reach that happy time
The kindly gods I pray,

For are not ducks and pease in prime
Upon the last of May?

At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then,

My knife and fork shall play;

But better wine and better men
I shall not meet in May.

And though, good friend, with whom I dine,
Your honest head is gray,

And, like this grizzled head of mine,

Has seen its last of May;

Yet, with a heart that's ever kind

A gentle spirit gay,

You've spring perennial in your mind,

And round you make a May!

‘AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR.

AH! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,

The cottage roof was shelter'd sure,

The cottage hearth was bright and warm