Then sing, to lighten the languid way;
When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing:

"Tis like the spell of hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray.

SAYS SAMMY, THE TAILOR, TO ME.

SAYS Sammy, the tailor, to me,

As he sat with his spindles crossways, "Tis bekase I'm a poet you see,

"That I kiver my head with green baise!" So, says I, "For a sample I begs,"

And I'm shot if he didn't produce sir,
Some crossticks he wrote on his legs,
And a pastern ode to his goose, sir.
Oh, this writing and reading!
'Tis all a fine conjuration,

Made for folks of high breeding,

To bother themselves and the nation! There's Dick who sold wine in the lane,

And old Dickey himself did not tope ill; But politics turned his brain,

And a place he called Constantinople. He never could sit down to dine,

But he thought of poor Turkey, he said, si

And swore, while he tippled his wine,

That the Porte was ne'er out of his head, sir. Oh, this writing and reading! &c. &c.

The grocer, Will Fig, who so fast

Through his ciphers and figures could run ye,

By gum! he has nothing, at last,

But the ciphers to show for his money. The barber, a scollard, well known

At the sign of the wig hanging from a tree, Makes ev'ry head like his own,

For he cuts them all up into geometry!
Oh, this writing and reading! &c. &c.

WHEN LEILA TOUCH'D THE LUTE.

WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But when the sounds were mute.
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.
Ah! how could she, who stole

Such breath from simple wire,

Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh: Golden now the strings she waketh! But where are all the tales

Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But alas! no more we listen!

YOUNG LOVE LIV'D ONCE IN AN HUMBLE

SHED.

YOUNG love liv'd once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread;
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,

For young hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though glooming, must still be fed, And not even love can live on flowers.

Alas! that poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

And flowers laid down their heads to die,

And hope fell sick, as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere love had warning,

And rais'd the latch, where the young go

lay;

"Oh no!" said love-"is it you? good bye; So he opened the window, and flew away!

ROBERT RUMBLE.

ROBERT RUMBLE, a poet of lyric renown,
Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

Was invited to dine with a squire out of town,
With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!
His nag had a spring halt, as well as his lyre,
So he mounted and rode to the house of the

squire,

Who was one of those kind-hearted men, that keep hounds

Just to hunt off the vermin from other men's grounds,

With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! The huntsman that morning had bought an old hack,

Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

To cut up as a delicate launch for the the pack,
With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!
But who can describe Robert Rumble's dismay,
When the squire, after dinner came smirking

to say,

That instead of the dog-horse, some hard-hearted wag

Had cut up, my mistake, Robert Rumble's lean

nag,

With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! But "comfort yourself," said the squire to the bard,

Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

'There's the dog-horse standing alive in the yard,"

With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! Then they saddled the dog-horse and homeward

he set,

o suspiciously ey'd by each dog that he met,

That you'd swear, notwithstanding his cavalı airs,

They suspected the steed he was on should theirs,

With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! Arriv'd safe at home, to his pillow he jogs, Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

And dreams all the night about critics and dog With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! His nag seem'd pegasus, touch'd in the wind And the curs were all wits of the true cyr kind,

Who, when press'd for a supper, must bite erc they sup,

And who ate Robert Rumble's poor pegesus up. With a hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho!

TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by;

To kneel at many‘a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.

This is love-careless love-
Such as kindlith hearts that rove.