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Oh! where are the dandies who flirted,

Who came of a morning to call ?
We females are so disconcerted,

I'd fee males to come to my ball !
'Twas flattery charm'd us—no matter,

Paste often may pass for a gem ;
Alas! we are duller and flatter,

Than when we we're flatter'd by them.

When family dinners we're giving,

They send an excuse,- there's the rub:
Each gourmand, secure of good living,

Like Hercules, leans on his club.
A hermit, though beauty invites him,

Alone at the Union he sits,
But what is the fare that delights him

Compar'd with the fair that he quits !

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.
I'd sooner run ten miles away,

You say, p’raps "more's the pity"-
Rusticity's all fudge-give me

Old London's rusty city.

In sloppy streets of town I'd sooner

Get my feet soak'd through,
Than stroll the meadows, when the grass

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,

Except on Epsom Downs.

Tban hear the linnet's tuneful note,

I'd rather hop the twig-
And, talk about fresh country air,

Give me a London wig!
The rivulets and murm'ring streams

I really cannot brook,
And angling is so in my line,

I like it with a hook !
All rural habits, too, I shun-

It is a fact, now mark-
I never could see any fun

In rising with the lark. Talk about bright chanticleer,

Such clear chanting I scornThe Morning Herald I prefer

To the herald of the morn.
When I prefer a village green,

To Clerkenwell I go,
You may set me down a green horn,

But I'm not so green, I know ;
No hills save Ludgate I could climb,

And talk of banks of Don,
The Bank of England is the one

I love to run upon.
Of the beauties of the farm-yard

How some with rapture talk-
The cattle plague me here enough,

For I'd rather from then 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,

It is in some folk's naturs ;
An Irish porter I'd best see

Bow'd down by weight of taturs.
Respecting agriculture, too,

I'm plain in iny revealings,
The sight of men a ploughing, it

Quite harrows up my feelings.
To boast about the golden corn,

They mean some chaff to put,
And to see men with their reaping hooks,

It's time for me to cut.
The sickle fairly makes me sick,

I hate the very name,
And I look



As a set of rogues in grain.
Don't name the country, pray, to me,

It don't at all accord ;
I never found myself at home,

Whene'er I went abroad.


[Air—"The Last Rosc 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,

But lingers at last,
A faded memento

Of sunny days past.

The prejudice still is

For poets to moan,
When roses and lilies

Are going and gone;

But Fasbion her sonnet

Would rather con pose
On summer's last bonnet,

Tban summer's last rose !
Though dreary November

Has darken'd the sky,
You still must remember

That day in July ;
When after much roaming,

To Carson's we went,
For something becoming

To take into Kent. You, long undecided

Wbat bonnet to choose, At length chose, as I did,

The sweetest of blues. Yours now serves to show, dear,

How fairest things tade ; And I, long ago, dear,

Gave inine to my inaid. Oh, pause for a minute,

Ere yours is resign'd;
Philosophy in it

A moral may find.
To past scenes I'm hurried,--

That relic revives
The beaux we worried

Half out of their lives. 'Twas worn at all places

Of public resort ;
At Hogsnorton races,

So famous for sport.
That day, when the Captain

Would after us jog,
And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!


He gave me a sandwich,

And not beir.g check'd,
He offered a hand-which

I chose to rejeci !
And then you were teas'd with

The gentleman's heart, Because you set ni'd pleased with

His gooseberry tart ! 'Twas worn at the ladies'

Toxopholite fête, (That sharp-shooting trade is

A thing that I hate; Their market they mar, who

Attempt, for a prize, To shoot with an arrow

Instead of their eyes). And don't that excursion

By water forget ; Sure, sumnier diversion

Was never so wet! To sit there and shiver,

And hear the wind blow,
The rain, and the river,

Abuve, and below!
But hang the last bonnet,

What is it to us,
That we should muse on it,

And muralise thus ?
A truce to reflecting ;

To Carson's we'll go, Intent ou selecting

A winter chapeau. Then let Betty take it,

For Betty likes blue ; And Betty can make i

Look better thau uew,

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