They say there is a Garden fair,

That's haunted by the dove,

Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse

The golden light of love

The place must be a Paradise,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land

For public spirit known

Whose Patriots love its interests

Much better than their own.

The Land of Promise sure it is!

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate,

A Mansion large and strong;
A view all over Kent and back,

And going for a song.

George Robins knows the

But how shall I get there?

very spot,

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a Company

All formal and enroll'd,

Will take your smallest silver coin

And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb'd,

But how shall I get there?

66

Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
"Come eat me, if you please.”
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(Hostess loquitur.)

WELL! thanks be to Heaven,

The summons is given ;

It's only gone seven

And should have been six ;

There's fine overdoing

In roasting and stewing,

And victuals past chewing

To rags and to sticks!

How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly
That John is so silly

And never will learn!

This plate is a cold one,

That cloth is an old one,

I wish they had told one The lamp wouldn't burn.

Now then for some blunder, For nerves to sink under ;

I never shall wonder

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle !

It's broke in the middle.

A Turbot! a fiddle!

It's only a Brill!

It's quite over-boiled too,

The butter is oil'd too,

The soup is all spoil'd too,

It's nothing but slop.

The smelts looking flabby,

The soles are as dabby,

It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning,

She gets a month's warning,

My orders for scorning—

There's nothing to eat!

I hear such a rushing,

I feel such a flushing,

I know I am blushing

As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,

I wish they would chatter;

What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?

How very unpleasant!

Lord! there is the pheasant!

Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on too!

And aiming at ton too!

And where is that John too,

The plague that he is?