I go to the same church -a love-lost labor; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play; She does not seem to know she has a neighbor Over the way!

At private theatres she never acts;

No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts

Over the way!

To billets-doux by post she shows no favor-
In short there is no plot that I can lay
To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!

I play the flute - she heeds not my chromatics
No friend an introduction can purvey;

I wish a fire would break out in the attics

Over the way!

My wasted form ought of itself to touch her:
My baker feels my appetite's decay;

And as for butcher's meat- O! she's

my butcher Over the way!

At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out

Over the way!

I'm weary of my

life;

without regret

I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette

Over the way!

I've fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;

I've vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray,
Quite sick of Number One- and Number Four
Over the way!

Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy,
Sometimes it only paints a ferme ornée,
A horse-a cow - six fowls — a pig
Over the way!

and Mary,

Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighborly invite
Over the way!

I've cooed with her in dreams, like any turtle;
I've snatched her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay:
Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle
Over the way!

Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop,

Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat "po-shay,"

And showered crowns to make the horses gallop

Over the way!

And thrice I've started up from dreams appalling
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray

There is a young man very fond of calling

Over the way!

O! happy man - above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!

With such a lot my heart would be in clover
But what O, horror! - what do I survey!

Postilions and white favors! - all is over

Over the way!

EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTI

MENTALIST.

"My Tables! Meat it is, I set it down!"

HAMLET.

I THINK it was Spring-but not certain I am -
When my passion began first to work;

But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.

Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,
Yes, for Morris had asked me to dine, -

And I thought I had never beheld such a face,

Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild

With sheer envy to witness my luck;

How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled As I afterwards offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost,

Through three courses of dishes and meats;
Getting deeper in love — but my heart was quite lost,
When it came to the trifle and sweets!

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,
To her parents I told my designs —

And then to herself I presented my hand,
With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,

And she did not object in the least;

I can't tell the date but we married, I know,
Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to

it certainly was the sea-side;
For the next, the most blesséd of morns,
I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O, never may memory lose sight of that year,
But still hallow the time as it ought!
That season the "grass was remarkably dear,
And the peas at a guinea a quart.

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste,
A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,

So united in heart

so congenial in taste We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,
But then Death - I ne'er dreamt about that!
O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried
When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,
But the cause no physician could nab;

But something it seemed like consumption, I fear,-
It was just after supping on crab,

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;

She lost relish for what she had relished the most,
Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,
While her form it grew wasted and thin;
But the last dying spark of existence went out,
As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men,
To indulge in a widower's moan;

O, I felt all the power of solitude then,

As I ate my first natives alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,
And with sorrowful crape on their hats,

O, my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying-I think it was sprats!

THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.

I SAWE a Mayd sitte on a Bank,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;

And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde !

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe,
That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne,
She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe
Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answerede round-
O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde

The Momente that her Care was drownd!