Oh! where are the dandies who flirted, I'd fee males to come to my ball! Than when we we're flatter'd by them. When family dinners we're giving, They send an excuse,-there's the rub: But what is the fare that delights him THE HORRORS OF THE COUNTRY. JOHN LABERN.] [Tune-"Young Ben the Carpenter." SOME people love the country; now I hate it, and that's flat As a mackerel hates the dry land, Or a mouse adores a cat. You say, p'raps "more's the pity"- Old London's rusty city. In sloppy streets of town I'd sooner Gives ev'ry one its dew (due). The rustic stile's quite out of mine The lofty pine, oddzounds! I'd never pine for, nor the Oaks, Than hear the linnet's tuneful note, I'd rather hop the twig And, talk about fresh country air, The rivulets and murm'ring streams All rural habits, too, I shun- When I prefer a village green, You may set me down a green horn, Of the beauties of the farm-yard How some with rapture talk— The cattle plague me here enough, For I'd rather from them walk. The pigs, for instance-when they're cook'd I like them, by the by But I see no fun in having A sty fixed in one's eye. Through gardens in the month of June, How some delighted stray Give me old Covent Garden On a busy market day. To doat on trees bow'd down with fruit, An Irish porter I'd best see Respecting agriculture, too, The sickle fairly makes me sick, I hate the very name, And I look upon the reapers As a set of rogues in grain. It don't at all accord; I never found myself at home, THE LAST SUMMER BONNET. T. H. BAYLY.] [Air-"The Last Rose of Summer." "TIs the last summer bonnet, The worse for the wear; The feathers upon it Are dimm'd by sea air. Gay places it went to, Of sunny days past. The prejudice still is For poets to moan, But Fashion her sonnet Though dreary November You, long undecided What bonnet to choose, At length chose, as I did, The sweetest of blues. Yours now serves to show, dear, How fairest things fade; And I, long ago, dear, Gave mine to my maid. Oh, pause for a minute, A moral may find. To past scenes I'm hurried,-- The beaux we worried Half out of their lives. 'Twas worn at all places And thought us entrapt in K He gave me a sandwich, And then you were teas'd with 'Twas worn at the ladies' (That sharp-shooting trade is And don't that excursion And hear the wind blow, The rain, and the river, But hang the last bonnet, What is it to us, Then let Betty take it, |