Go on, Madame! Go on-be bright and busy
While hoaxed Astronomers look up and stare
From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy,
So see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair!
A Serpent wriggling into Charles's Wain!
A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear!
A Rocket tangled in Diana's train,
And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair!
There is a King of Fire Thou shouldst be
Queen!
Methinks a good connection might come from it ;
Could'st thou not make him, in the garden scene,
Set out per Rocket and return per Comet;
Then give him a hot treat
Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup,
Lord! how the world would throng to see him eat, He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up!
One solitary night true is the story,
Watching those forms that Fancy will create
Within the bright confusion of the grate,
I saw a dazzling countenance of glory!
Oh Dei gratias !
'Twas thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove ;
And ever since that night,
In dark and bright,
Thy face is registered within my stove!
Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays,
May no untimely blow its doom forestall;
But when old age prepares the friendly pall,
When the last spark of all thy sparks decays,
Then die lamented by good people all,
Like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize !
RAT-TAT it went upon the lion's chin,
"That hat, I know it!" cried the joyful girl;
"Summer's it is, I know him by his knock,
Comers like him are welcome as the day!
Lizzy! go down and open the street-door,
Busy I am to any one but him.
Know him you must he has been often here; Show him up stairs, and tell him I'm alone."
Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair;
Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat;
"Sure he has brought me tickets for the play
Drury—or Covent Garden
or Covent Garden - darling man!·
Kemble will play or Kean who makes the soul
Tremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor -
Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce
Barren beside or Liston, Laughter's Child -
Kelly the natural, to witness whom
Jelly is nothing to the public's jam —
Super, in William Tell now rightly told.
Better-perchance, from Andrews, brings a box,
Letter of boxes for the Italian stage
Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul!
No card,- thank heaven
Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque
Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls.
Dearly I dote on white my satin dress,
Merely one night — it won't be much the worse
Cupid the New Ballet I long to see
Stupid! why don't she go and ope the door!"
Glistened her eye as the impatient girl Listened, low bending o'er the topmost stair. Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends, Plainly she hears this question and reply: "Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d'ye want?' “Taxes,” says he, "and shall not call again !
(AT NO. 1, NEWGATE, FAVOURED BY MR. WONTNER.)
O MARY, I believed you true,
And I was blest in so believing;
But till this hour I never knew
That you were taken up for thieving!
Oh! when I snatched a tender kiss,
Or some such trifle when I courted,
You said, indeed, that love was bliss,
But never owned you were transported!
But then to gaze on that fair face
It would have been an unfair feeling,
To dream that you had pilfered lace
And Flints had suffered from your stealing!
Or when my suit I first preferred,
To bring your coldness to repentance,
Before I hammered out a word,
How could I dream you'd heard a sentence !
Or when with all the warmth of youth
I strove to prove my love no fiction,
How could I guess I urged a truth
On one already past conviction!
How could I dream that ivory part,
Your hand where I have looked and lingered, Altho' it stole away my heart,
Had been held up as one light-fingered!
In melting verse your charms I drew,
The charms in which my muse delighted
Alas! the lay, I thought was new,
Spoke only what had been indicted!
Oh! when that form, a lovely one,
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to,
I little thought that you had run
A chance of hanging on your own too.
You said you picked me from the world,
My vanity it now must shock it
And down at once my pride is hurled,
You've picked me- and you've picked a pocket!
Oh! when our love had got so far,
The banns were read by Dr. Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar
Why did not some one shout " Old Bailey?"
But when you robed your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with Darbies?
And when the parson came to say,
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honour and obey,
Who could have thought-"O Bay of Botany."
But, oh, — the worst of all-your slips
I did not till this day discover
That down in Deptford's prison ships,
Oh, Mary! you've a hulking lover!
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