He sent such hints through Viscount This,
To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough—a dangerous hole in 't.

"T was thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust him-had his finger.

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 mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille-
Having been chased from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all
She used to grace-a country-town--
Went smiling to the new year's ball.

"Here, bere, 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, even 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. "Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, My throne, like Magna Charta, raise, 'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, That scorn the threaten'd chaine Anglaise." "T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's-Head Inn,

And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The squires and the squiresses all,

With young squirinas, just come out, And my lord's daughters from the Hall (Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt,) Already, as she tripp'd up stairs,

She in the cloak-room saw assemblingWhen, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the first fiddle, set her trembling. She stops-she listens-can it be?

Alas! in vain her ears would 'scape itIt is "Di tanti palpiti,"

As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage" however in she goes,

With her best sweeping country grace; When, ah! too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face. Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in,

Their looks and language, airs and trickery!

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face
(The beau ideal of French beauty,)
A band-box thing, all art and lace,
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine-
From Hippolyte her rouge and hair—
Her poetry, from Lamartine-
Her morals from-the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced-so slidingly,
So hear the ground she plied her art,
You'd swear her mother-earth and she
Had made a compact ne'er to part.
Her face the while, demure, sedate,

No signs of life or motion showing,
Like a bright pendule's dial-plate-

So still, you'd hardly think 't was going.

Full fronting her stood Country-Dance

A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance

English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 't is fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing oft the devil with flounces.

Unlike Mamselle-who would prefer
(As morally a lesser ill)
A thousand flaws in character,
To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did she of Albion wear;
Let her but run that two-heat race
She calls a Set-not Dian e'er

Came rosier from the woodland chase.

And such the nymph, whose soul had in 't
Such anger now-whose eyes of blue
(Eyes of that bright victorious tint
Which English maids call " Waterloo,")

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk

Of a warm evening, flashing broke, While to the tune of "Money Musk,"

Which struck up now-she proudly spoke

"Heard you that strain-that joyous strain? 'T was such as England loved to hear, Ere thou, and all thy frippery train, Corrupted both her foot and ear"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, Presumed, in sight of all beholders,

1 An old English country-dance.

"How many a couple, like the wind, Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind,

And gave a loose to legs and souls! "How matrimony throve-ere stopp'd By this cold, silent, foot-coquettingHow charmingly one's partner popp'd The important question in poussette-ing! "While now, alas, no sly advances

No marriage hints-all goes on badly: "Twixt Parson Malthus and French dances, We girls are at a discount sadly. "Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) Declares not half so much is made By licences-and he must know wellSince vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade." She ceased-tears fell from every MissShe now had touch'd the true pathetic :— One such authentic fact as this,

Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "COUNTRY-DANCE!" And the maid saw, with brightening face,

1 Another old English country-dance.

The steward of the night advance,
And lead her to her birth-right place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased,
Now tuned again their summons sweet,
And, for one happy night, at least,
Old England's triumph was complete.

SONG.

FOR THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

To those we love we've drank to-night;
But now attend, and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite

Of those for whom-we care not.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown-
The People's Love-we care not.

For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, and dare not
Pronounce the will, whose very breath
Would rend its links-we care not.

For priestly men who covet sway

And wealth, though they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go—we care not.

For martial men who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The Pledges of a soldier's word,

Redeem'd and pure-we care not.

For legal men who plead for wrong,

And, though to lies they swear not, Are not more honest than the throng

Of those who do-we care not.

For courtly men who feed upon

The land like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their reptile limbs-we care not.

For wealthy men who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines
In honest want-we care not.

For prudent men who keep the power
Of Love aloof, and bare not
Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty's shafts-we care not.
For secret men who, round the bowl
In friendship's circle, tear not
The cloudy curtain from their soul,
But draw it close-we care not.

For all, in short, on land and sea,

In court and camp, who are not, Who never were, nor e'er will be

Good men and true-we care not

"In vain are laws pass'd,

There's nothing holds you fast,

Though you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you-
At the smallest hint in life,
You forsake your lawful wife,

As other Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true

But what can ladies do,

When disown'd by their natural protectors?
And as to falsehood, stuff!

I shall soon be false enough,
When I get among those wicked Bank Directors
The Sovereign, smiling on her,
Now swore, upon his honour,
To be henceforth domestic and loyal;
But, within an hour or two,
Why-I sold him to a Jew,
And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

"O ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavel acres Agua lupos, capreæque leones."-Hor.

SAID a Sovereign to a Note,
In the pocket of my coat,

Where they met, in a neat purse of leather, "How happens it, I prithee,

That though I'm wedded with thee, Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of change,
With silver you can range,

And of lots of young sixpences be mother;
While with me-on my word,
Not my Lady and my Lord

Of Wth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied
(Lying crumpled by his side,)

"Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, SirOne cannot look askance,

But, whip! you're off to France, Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began From the moment Parson Van, Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter, 'For better or for worse'

Is the usual marriage curse:

But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

1 "Road to Ruin."

Dicta Fames Cereris (quamvis contraria semper
Illius est operi) peragit.—Ovid.

This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the unicorn, which is supposed to be something between the Bos and the Asinus, and, as Rees Cyclopedia tells us, has a particular liking for any thing chaste.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

"Quein das finem, Rex magne, laborum?"-Virgil.

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,'

When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,

"T is hardly worth while being very high born!

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor
in?

A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"—
At once so confounded domestic and foreign.
As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast,
But Peers, and such animals fed up for show,
(Like the well-physick'd elephant, lately deceased,)
Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and dis