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The people said that she was blue:

But I was green, and loved her dearly. She was approaching thirty-two;

And I was then eleven, nearly.

I did not love as others do ;

(None ever did that I've heard tell of;) My passion was a byword through

The town she was, of course, the belle of:

Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man

The far-off sound of rippling river; As to cadets in Hindostan

The fleeting remnant of their liver

To me was ANNA; dear as gold

That fills the miser's sunless coffers ; As to the spinster, growing old,

The thought—the dream—that she had offers. I'd sent her little gifts of fruit;

I'd written lines to her as Venus;

I'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot

The man who dared to come between us :

And it was you, my Thomas, you,

The friend in whom my soul confided, Who dared to gaze on her—to do,

I may say, much the same as I did.

One night, I saw him squeeze her hand;

There was no doubt about the matter;

I said he must resign, or stand

My vengeance—and he chose the latter.

We met, we planted' blows on blows:

We fought as long as we were able : My rival had a bottle-nose,

And both my speaking eyes were sable.

When the school-bell cut short our strife,

Miss P. gave both of us a plaster ; And in a week became the wife

Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.

I loved her then—I'd love her still,

Only one must not love Another's: But thou and I, my Tommy, will,

When we again meet, meet as brothers.

It may be that in age one seeks

Peace only: that the blood is brisker In boys' veins, than in theirs whose cheeks

Are partially obscured by whisker ;

Or that the growing ages steal

The memories of past wrongs from us. But this is certain—that I feel

Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas !

And wheresoe'er we meet again,

On this or that side the equator, If I've not turned teetotaller then,

And have wherewith to pay the waiter,

To thee I'll drain the modest cup,

Ignite with thee the mild Havannah ; And we will waft, while liquoring up,

Forgiveness to the heartless Anna.

There stands a city.”

INGOLDSBY.

YEAR by year do Beauty's daughters,

In the sweetest gloves and shawls, Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,

And adorn the Chattenham balls.

· Nulla non donanda lauru,'

Is that city: you could not, Placing England's map before you,

Light on a more favour'd spot.

If no clear translucent river

Winds 'neath willow-shaded paths, “ Children and adults” may shiver

All day in “Chalybeate baths :"

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