Never, as long as I live, shall I forget the 11th of November!
[This phenomenon, we have been told, is not so strange as it may appear. Let the curious reader only be present at the Bank, on the first _rainy_ day, when the clock strikes four, and he will infallibly—should there be only one omnibus in waiting—witness the same desperate struggle for places as occurred to our German-minded correspondent on the memorable 11th. It is a very amusing sport, we have been told, to be a spectator (under an umbrella) of this animated clerk-race.]
LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. BY THE LATE DANIEL LAMBERT.
Ellen, I will not praise thine eyes, Nor laud the beauties of thy cheek; For I have grown into a size, That ladies titter when I speak Of love! and vow they'll ne'er be won By suitors weighing half a ton.
I will not sing of every spell That decks thy form—thou'rt not for me; For I've a voice that doth excel A school-boy blowing in a key: And lovely lips have o'er and o'er Declared my singing quite a bore.
But let me breathe this fervent prayer, That when to him thou hold'st most dear Thou yield'st thine hand, oh! make him swear To shun the wiles of bottled beer; And, should he pause, then point me out, And say—"Behold, that's horrid stout!"
I've got a ticket, goodness, what a saving! A guinea for a very fine engraving. Ten shillings is its value—some say five; But what of that? the Fine Arts ought to thrive: And if its real worth were but a shilling, To patronize the arts all must be willing. But of their eagerness, the best solution Is the most gratifying fact, That to the plate a chance is tacked In some most promising Fine Art distribution, How anxious all must feel, At every circuit of the wheel, When the reflection doth arise, That one in several thousands gains a prize; That prize a picture worth one hundred pounds! According to the artist's estimate. But when the critics come to judge, odd zounds! They set it down at a much lower rate. Art Unions have to all things been applied; Twelfth-cakes, pianofortes, and Stilton cheese; And fifty other articles beside, Which could be made a pretext just to squeeze A little money from the public pocket. But now no more is to be got, Parliament thought 'twas a bad lot, And down one day accordingly did knock it.