LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER, BORN OCTOBER 21, WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated, Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the ne: In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him; For his skin, like a lady's loose gown,' hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny; 'I have lost many pounds—make me well-there's a guinea.' The doctor look'd wise; A slow fever,' he said; 'Sudorifics in bed,' exclaim'd Will, 'are humbugs! Will kick'd out the doctor; but when ill indeed, Look'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will with a grin, Quoth the landlord, Till now, I ne'er had a dispute; 'The oven says Will. Says the host, Why this passion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir? Zounds cries Will, in a taking, Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking? Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, 'Well, I see you've been going away half a year? 'Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel,' Will said, 'But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.' TO THE CUCKOO. JOHN LOGAN, BORN AT SOUTRA, MID-LOTHIAN, IN 1748, DIED IN LONDON, DECEMBER, 1788. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on its bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; O could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! "Magical stanzas," says D'Israeli, "of picture, melody, and sentiment." A THOUGHT ON DEATH. WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S EIGHTIETH YEAR. MRS BARBAUld, born at KIBWORTH HARCOURT, LEICESTERSHIRE, IN 1743, DIED MARCH 9, 1825. WHEN life, as opening buds, is sweet, When scarce is seized some valued prize, Forbid the soul from earth to rise- When, one by one, those ties are torn, Ah! then how easy 'tis to die! When faith is strong, and conscience clear, |