MY LETTERS.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Litera scripta manet."-Old Saw.

ANOTHER mizzling, drizzling day!

Of clearing up there's no appearance;

So I'll sit down without delay,

And here, at least, I'll make a clearance !

Oh ne'er " on such a day as this,"

Would Dido with her woes oppresséd Have woo'd Æneas back to bliss,

Or Trolius gone to hunt for Cressid!

No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,
And popp'd their toes upon the fender,
And drank a quiet cup of tea:

On days like this one can't be tender.

So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
And put my desk upon the table-
Bring that portfolio-stir the fire-
Now off as fast as you are able!

First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,

"A ball!”—she knows that I'm no dancer

That woman's ask'd me fifty times,

And yet I never send an answer.

"DEAR JACK,

Just lend me twenty pounds,

Till Monday next, when I'll return it.

Yours truly,

HENRY GIBBS."

Why Z-ds!

I've seen the man but twice-here, burn it,

One from my cousin Sophy Daw— Full of Aunt Margery's distresses; "The cat has kitten'd 'in the draw,'

And ruin'd two bran-new silk dresses."

From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,”-nay
Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;
Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"-Ay,

"For King read Mob!" Brougham's old erratum.

From Seraphina Price-" At two”—

"Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"

Two more because I did not go,

Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!"

“DEAR SIR,—

"This morning Mrs. P—————

Who's doing quite as well as may be,

Presented me at half past three

Precisely, with another baby.

"We'll name it John, and know with pleasure

You'll stand"-Five guineas more, confound it !-

I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,

Or thrown it in the Thames and drown'd it.

What have we next? A civil dun:

"John Brown would take it as a favor".

Another, and a surlier one,

“I can't put up with sich behavior.”

"Bill so long standing,"

66 quite tired out,"

"Must sit down to insist on payment," "Called ten times,"-Here's a fuss about A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment!

For once I'll send an answer, and in

form Mr. Snip he need n't "call" so; But when his bill's as "tired of standing" As he is, beg 't will "sit down also.”

This from my rich old Uncle Ned,
Thanking me for my annual present;
And saying he last Tuesday wed

His cook-maid, Molly-vastly pleasant!
An ill-spelt note from Tom at school,
Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle;
Another from that precious fool,

Miss Pyefinch, with a stupid riddle.

"D'ye give it up?" Indeed I do!
Confound those antiquated minxes;
I won't play "Billy Black" to a "Blue,"
Or Edipus to such old sphinxes.

A note sent up from Kent to show me,
Left with my bailiff, Peter King;

“I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me! "Yours most sincerely,

"CAPTAIN SWING."

Four begging letters with petitions,
One from my sister Jane, to pray
I'll execute a few commissions"

In Bond-street, "when I go that way.”

"And buy at Pearsall's in the city

Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses:

Color no matter, so it's pretty;—

Two hundred pens"-two hundred curses!

From Mistress Jones: "My little Billy
Goes up his schooling to begin,

Will you just step to Piccadilly,

And meet him when the coach comes in?

"And then, perhaps, you will as well, see-
The poor dear fellow safe to school
At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea !"
Heaven send he flog the little fool!

From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know
You promised me last week a Rebus;

A something smart and apropos,

For my new Album ?"-Aid me, Phoebus!

"My first is follow'd by my second;
Yet should my first my second see,
A dire mishap it would be reckon'd,
And sadly shock'd my first would be.

"Were I but what my whole implies,
And pass'd by chance across your portal
You'd cry 'Can I believe my eyes?
I never saw so queer a mortal!'

"For then my head would not be on,
My arms their shoulders must abandon;
My very body would be gone,

I should not have a leg to stand on.'

Come that's dispatch'd-what follows?-Stay
"Reform demanded by the nation;
Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay,
By Jove a blessed Reformation!

Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose-
Or no!-the filly-she's the fleeter;
The devil take the rain-here goes,
I'm off—a plumper for Sir Peter !

THE POPLAR.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind-'twas a little one then-
We carved her initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.

Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q.

This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her lov'd patronymic-ah! can it be so?

Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing;
A D?-we'll be Deed if it isn't an O!

Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,

That thus on our labors stern Chronos should frown:
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!

SPRING.

A NEW VERSION.

THOMAS HOOD.

"Ham. The air bites shrewdly-it is very cold.
Hor. It is a nipping and eager air.”—HAMLET.

COME, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come!"
O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,
How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?
There's no such season.

The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name!
For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter!
And suffer from her blows as if they came
From Spring the Fighter.

Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing,

And be her tuneful laureates and upholders, Who do not feel as if they had a Spring Poured down their shoulders!

Let others eulogize her floral shows;

From me they can not win a single stanza.

I know her blooms are in full blow-and so's
The Influenza.

Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale,

Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at,
Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale,
Are things I sneeze at!

Fair is the vernal quarter of the year!

And fair its early buddings and its blowingsBut just suppose Consumption's seeds appear

With other sowings!

For me, I find, when eastern winds are high,
A frigid, not a genial inspiration;

Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy

An inflamination.