Thou wert working late, thou busy busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower,

I heard thee last as I saw thee first,

When the Primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst, In the coolness of the evening hour,

I heard thee, thou busy busy Bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy Bee!

Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy age will never enjoy;

I will not copy thee, thou miserly Bee.

Thou art a fool, thou busy busy Bee,
Thus for another to toil!

Thy master waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And then he will seize the spoil,

He will murder thee, thou poor little Bee!

To a FRIEND

EXPRESSING A WISH TO TRAVEL.

Dost thou, then, listening to the traveller's tale
Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame,
And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name
That roll their plenty thro' the freshen'd vale;
Dost thou then long to voyage
far away,

And visit other lands, that thou mayest view
These varied scenes so beautiful and new?
Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray
Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown,
And when o'erwearied with the toilsome day
To rest at eve and feel thyself alone.
Delightful sure it is at early morning

To see the sun-beam shine on scenes so fair,
And when the eve the mountain heights adorning
Sinks slow, empurpling the luxurious air.
Pleasant it is at times like these to roam,

But wouldst thou not at night, confined within Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, Remember with a sigh the joys of home?

O DE

To Mr. PACKWOOD..

I.

Come Muse and seize the trump of fame
To sing great PACKWOOD's growing name,
No king deserves it louder.

Then swell your deep sonorous voice,
To him who mortals bids rejoice;

And seek his strap and powder !

II.

Oh! had'st thou flourish'd in. a age,
When every hero, saint and sage,
Like modern Psalmanazor,

Their hairy honours wore at length,
And every beard was gaining strength,.
For want of Patent Razor !

III.

Then Barbarossa's fiery chin,

And Blue Beards, so renown'd in sin,

Had been as smooth as satin;

And odes that only now are sung,
To praise thee in thy mother-tongue,
Had then been made in Latin.

IV.

No more shall love-lorn Damon seek,
The dimples of his Chloe's cheek,

With beard like Neb'chadnezzar—
Since once he's had the lucky hap,
On PACKWOOD's wond'rous chemic strap,
To whet his dullest razor.

V.

No more shall he with anguish grin ;
No more shall smart his mangled chin ;
Thanks to thy strap so famous !
A strap that gives the face such ease,
Might e'en a mighty monarch please,
When shaved by Billy Ramus !

VI.

Could'st thou in France thy razors grind,
Thy talents there would surely find
'Mong'st lawgivers a station.

Smooth as thy strap their chins would feel-
Thou'dst sharpen for the public weal

The razor of the nation!

VII.

Oh! could'st thou by a lucky hit,
Find out a strap to sharpen wit!

(Tho' high thy present state is)

Then would'st thou make a monarch smile,

The ruler of a sea-girt isle,

And get a patent gratis.

VIII.

Thus would the spreading voice of fame,
With Paracelsus rank thy name,
And other great gold finders—
The long-sought philosophic stone,
Become without dispute thy own,
Thou Prince of Razor Grinders !

J. W. T.