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The motley, medley coach provide,

Or, like Joe Frankenstein, compile
The vegetable man complete-
The proper Covent Garden feat.

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,

Or eat, swill, swallow, bolt, and choke;
Nod, weep, and hiccup, sneeze and wink!
Thy very yawn was quite a joke!

Though Joseph junior acts not ill,
There's no fool like the old fool still.

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!

We met with mirth-we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go,
Ere fun can see thy like again;
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect clowns, that are not boors!

DREAMS.

Anonymous.

I DREAMT that at even a white mist arose
Where the hedge-row brambles twist-

I thought that my love was a sweet wild rose,
And I the silv'ry mist!

And sweetly I beaded her pale red charms

With many a diamond speck;

And softly I bent up my wat'ry arms,

And hung round her beautiful neck.

O me! what a heavenly birth:
I revell'd all night

Till the moon came bright,

Then sank at her feet down again in the earth.

I dreamt that my love was a sweet wild pea,
All cover'd with purple bloom,
And I methought was an amorous bee
That lov'd the rich perfume.
Large draughts of nectar I sat to sip
On a bean-leaf just below-

I breath'd her breath, and I kist her lip,

And she was as chaste as snow!

O me! what a beautiful task!

For there I lay

Till eve grew grey,

While she in the sun's bright gleam did bask.

Again-I was where the pale moon did line
The forest with silver bright-

I thought that my love was a wild woodbine,
And I—a zephyr light:

"Welcome," said I," where the bramble weaves "Around us a guard of thorns;"

And sweetly I tangled myself in her leaves,

And fann'd her red streak'd horns ;

By the music of which we led

A gay dance about

Till old night came out

To rock us to sleep in his dusky bed.

MACBETH TRAVESTIED.

Rejected Addresses.

Enter Macbeth, in a red night-cap. Page following with a torch.

Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell
(She knows that my purpose is cruel)
I'd thank her to tingle her bell,

As soon as she's heated my gruel.
Go, get thee to bed and repose,
To sit up so late is a scandal ;

But ere you have ta'en off your clothes,
Be sure that you put out that candle.
Ri fol de rol tol de rol lol.

My stars, in the air here's a knife!
I'm sure it cannot be a hum;

I'll catch at the handle, odds life,

And then I shall not cut my thumb.

I've got him!-no, at him again;

Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes:

This must be some blade of the brain :
Those witches are given to hoax.

I've one in my pocket, I know,

My wife left on purpose behind her;
She bought this of Teddy,-high-ho!
The poor Caledonian grinder.

I see them again! o'er thy middle

Large drops of red blood now are spill'd;
Just as much as to say, diddle, diddle,
Good Duncan, pray come and be kill'd.

It leads to his chamber, I swear;

I tremble and quake every joint;
No dog at the scent of a hare,
Ever yet made a cleverer point.
Ah, no! 'twas a dagger of straw,—

Give me blinkers to save me from starting;

The knife that I thought that I saw,

Was nought but my eye Betty Martin.

Now o'er this terrestrial line,
A life paralytic is spread;
For while the one half is alive,

The other is sleepy and dead.
King Duncan, in grand majesty,
Has got my state bed for a snooze;

I've lent him my slippers, so I
May certainly stand in his shoes.

Blow softly, ye murmuring gales,

Ye feet rouse no echo in walking; For though a dead man tell no tales, Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death,I'll stick him, then off safely get; Cries the world this could not be Macbeth, For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet.

Hark, hark, 'tis the signal, by goles,
It sounds like a funeral knell;
O hear it not, Duncan, it tolls

To call thee to heaven or hell.
Or if you to heaven wont fly,

But rather prefer Pluto's ether, Only wait a few years till I die,

"And we'll go to the devil together.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

ONE night the nymph, call'd Country Dance—
Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
A thing, Mamselle Quadrille―

Having been chas'd from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all,
She us'd to grace-a Country Town-
Went smiling to the New Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, "

though driven From London's gay and shining tracks

Though, like a Peri cast from heaven,

I've lost, for ever lost Almack's

"Though not a London Miss alive,

Would now for her acquaintance own me; And spinsters, e'en, of forty-five,

Upon their honours ne'er have known me.

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
And-spite of some few dandy Lancers,
Who vainly try to preach Quadrille—

See nought but true blue Country-dancers.

Moore.

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