THE SICK CHILD.

[BY THE HONORABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.]

PUNCH.

A WEAKNESS seizes on my mind-I would more pudding take;
But all in vain-I feel-I feel—my little head will ache.
Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore
That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more,
Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me,
In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so I can not tell—I yet may do without;
They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.
I long to eat that potted beef-to taste that apple-pie;

I long-I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;
Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.
Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear,
My brain swims round--I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS.

OH, solitude thou wonder-working fay,
Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms,
Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay,
Come, call around, a world of country charms.
Let all this room, these walls dissolve away,
And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place:
This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play;
Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face;
My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream;
My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream.

PUNCH.

The spell is wrought: imagination swells

My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells!
I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder,
And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the winder !

LINES TO BESSY.

[BY A STUDENT AT LAW.]

My head is like a title-deed,

Or abstract of the same:

Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read
Thine own long-cherish'd name.

Against thee I my suit have brought,
I am thy plaintiff lover,

And for the heart that thou hast caught,

An action lies-of trover,

Alas, upon me every day

The heaviest costs you levy:

Oh, give me back my heart-but nay!

I feel I can't replevy.

I'll love thee with my latest breath,
Alas, I can not you shun,

Till the hard hand of sheriff death
Takes me in execution.

Say, BESSY dearest, if you will
Accept me as a lover?
Must true affection file a bill

The secret to discover?

Is it my income's small amount
That leads to hesitation?

Refer the question of account
To CUPID'S arbitration.

PUNCH.

Alas! wild echo, with a moan,
Murmurs above my feeble head:
In the wide world I am alone;
Ha ha! my only client's-dead!

In vain the robing-room I seek;
The very waiters scarcely bow;
Their looks contemptuously speak,

"He's lost his only client now."

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore,
Would hasten when his name I said,
To hand in motions, comes no more,
He knows my only client's dead.

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court,
Open the pleadings of a suit:

Ne'er shall the judges cut me short
While moving them for a compute.

No more with a consenting brief
Shall I politely bow my head;
Where shall I run to hide my grief?
Alas! my only client's dead.

Imagination's magic power

Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be,

The spot, the day, the very hour,

When first I sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row

I sat, and some one touched my head,

He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!

That only client now is dead.

PUNCH.

In vain I try to sing-I'm hoarse:
In vain I try to play the flute,
A phantom seems to flit across———
It is the ghost of a compute.

I try to read,--but all in vain;
My chamber listlessly I tread;
Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain;
Ho! ho! my only client's dead.

I think I hear a double knock :
I did alas! it is a dun.
Tailor-avaunt! my sense you shock;
He's dead! you know I had but one.

What's this they thrust into my hand?
A bill returned 1-ten pounds for bread!
My butcher's got a large demand;

I'm mad! my only client's dead.

LOVE ON THE OCEAN.

PUNCH.

THEY met, 't was in a storm

On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turned his face aside,

And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.

She gazed upon the wave,

Sublime she declared it; But no reply he gave—

He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south,

Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth,

And out he thought 't was leaping.

"O, then, Steward!" he cried,

With the deepest emotion;

Then totter'd to the side,

And leant o'er the ocean.

The world may think him cold,

But they'll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,

That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.

"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?"*

AND

"YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!"

PUNCH.

Just at present no lyrics have so éclatant a succès de société as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles, to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HoN. MRS. N-T-N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL-CHE DE F-TZ-FL-M to C-PT-N DE B-TS, of the C-DS-M G-DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the éclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D-CH-SS of S-TH-D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self-devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancée. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]

"On! wilt thou sew my buttons on,

When gayer scenes recall

That fairy face, that stately grace,

To reign amid the ball?

When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers

For fête-champêtres shall don,

Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow,

Still sew my buttons on?

"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet,

To meet a freezing eye;

The gay, the great, in camp and state,

In vain around thee sigh.

"Wilt thou love me then as now?" and "I will love thee then as now,'

two popular songs in 1849.