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There were more things in Mrs. Gurton's eye, Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

No doubt the Editor of Notes and Queries'

Or “Things not generally known' could tell That word's real force—my only lurking fear is

That the great Gammer“ didna ken hersel”: (I've precedent, yet feel I owe apology For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon

For making this unwarranted digression, Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary's garden :

And beg to send, with every expression
Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,
For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a 'crumpled Horn,'

(Living next me, upon the selfsame story,) And ever, 'twixt the midnight and the morn,

He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.

The tune is good; the habit p'raps romantic;

But tending, if pursued, to drive one's neighbours

frantic.

And now,—at this unprecedented hour,

When the young Dawn is “trampling out the

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I hear that youth—with more than usual power

And pathos--struggling with the first few

bars.

And I do think the amateur cornopean Should be put down by law-but that's perhaps

Utopian.

Who knows what “things unknown” I might

have “bodied

Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?

But don't I know that when my friend has

plodded

Through the first verse, the second will ensue? Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely

Send the beforenamed book-and am yours most

sincerely.

ODE— ON A DISTANT PROSPECT

OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

NOW the “rosy morn appearing"

Floods with light the dazzled heaven;

And the schoolboy groans on hearing

That eternal clock strike seven :Now the waggoner is driving

Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the blue-bottle, reviving,

Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful :

Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful

Of (perhaps inferior) eggs. Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,

Mentioned "rent,” which “p'raps I'd pay;"> And I have a dismal presage

That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,

Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—

Then how my patrician nose would

Turn up at the thought of "swipes !" Ale,-occasionally claret,

Graced my luncheon then;--and now I drink porter in a garret,

To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,

And I doff my hat and gloves,
No sweet bird is there to “cheep and

Twitter twenty million loves ;"
No dark-ringleted canaries

Sing to me of “hungry foam ;" No imaginary “Marys”

Call fictitious “cattle home.”

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