For "auld lang syne" I'll not maltreat

Yon pseudo-tinker, though the cheat,

As sly as thievish Reynard, Instead of mending kettles, prowls,

To make foul havoc of my fowls,

And decimate my hen-yard.

Come thou, too, black-eyed lass, and try

That potent skill in palmistry,

Which sixpences can wheedle;

Mine is a friendly cottage-here

No snarling mastiff need you fear,

No Constable or Beadle.

'Tis

yours, I know, to draw at will

Upon futurity a bill,

And Plutus to importune;

Discount the bill-take half yourself,

Give me the balance of the pelf,

And both may laugh at fortune,

LIFE.

THERE are who think this scene of life

A frightful gladiatorial strife,

A struggle for existence,

Where class contends with class, and each

Must plunder all within his reach,

To earn his own subsistence.

Shock'd at the internecine air

Of this Arena, they forswear

Its passions and its quarrels;

They will not sacrifice, to live,

All that to life its charms can give,

Nor sell for bread their morals.

Enthusiasts! check your reveries, Ye cannot always pluck at ease

From Pleasure's cornucopia;

Ye cannot alter Nature's plan,

Change to a perfect being Man,

Nor England to Utopia.

Plunge in the busy current-stem

The tide of errors ye condemn,

And fill life's active uses;

Begin reform yourselves, and live

To prove that Honesty may thrive

Unaided by abuses.

TO A LADY.

[On giving the writer a little bronze Cupid from Pompeii.]

THANKS for thy little God of Love,

Dug from Pompeii-whose fate 'tis,

Henceforth to be install'd above

My household Lares and Penates.

Oh! could its lips of bronze unclose,
How sad a tale might they recall!
How thrill us with th' appalling woes
Of the doom'd City's burial!

Perchance, on that benighted day
This tiny imp the table graced

Of one whose mansion might display

The choicest stores of classic taste.

Of some one whose convivial board

With all embellishments was deck'd,

While her rich cabinets outpour'd

A constant feast of Intellect.

Of one who, tho' she ne'er declined
In social chat to bear a part,

Loved more to fill her house and mind
With letter'd lore, and varied art.—

Of one who thus could give delight
To guests of every mental hue,
Whether unlearn'd or erudite,-

Of one, in short, resembling You!

To the dark tomb, thou Pagan Sprite!

For many centuries consign'd,

Thrice welcome to this world of light,

Where worshippers thou still wilt find.

VOL. I.

P