Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,
When a Venus demanded their skill;
Though now it can hardly be reckon❜d a nose,
But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,
Such a nectar there hung on each lip;
Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,
Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favourite haunts, From its dimple he could not get loose; Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants, Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,
With their ringlets of auburn so deep!
Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,
By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace, While in whiteness it vied with your arms: Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place, To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight, Though it now has two twists from uprightBut bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!

Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West,

My daily labours past;

On Anna's soft and gentle breast

My head reclined at last ;

The darkness closed around, so dear
To fond congenial souls,

And thus she murmur'd at my ear,
"My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,
Insisting on his rent;

And all the Todds are coming up
To see us, out of Kent ;—

I quite forgot to tell you John

Has had a tipsy fall;

I'm sure there's something going on
With that vile Mary Hall!"—

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,

And I have bought the rest—
Of course, if we go out of town,
Southend will be the best.-
I really think the Jones's house

Would be the thing for us;—
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
Had parted with her nus-

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day, To bid me suit myself—

And what d'ye think? the rats have gnaw'd

The victuals on the shelf.—

And, lord! there's such a letter come,

Inviting you to fight!

Of course you don't intend to go—
God bless you, dear, good night!"

III.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,-first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He 'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He 'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nurseling of the Hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on,

My elfin John !

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick—

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,(I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,— (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV.

A SERENADE.

“Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry,

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

The brat will never shut an eye;
Hither come, some power divine!
Close his lids, or open mine!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
What the devil makes him cry?
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

Still he stares-I wonder why,

Why are not the sons of earth

Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"