Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips, For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips. Then her mouth--when she's happy--indeed, it appears To laugh at the tips of her comical EARS. Her Ears,--Ah, her Ears!--I remember the squallings That greeted my own ears, when Rambert and Lawlings Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing-- Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring. Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabaei That I bought of the old _contadino_ at Veii. They cost me some _pauls_, but, as history shows, For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose. And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede, And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed, For think of the woeful mishap that befel The damsel who dropt her pair into a well. That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown, Or given her Ears to have let well alone; For when she got home her Instructress severe Dismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear. What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a sting Would be rather too much of an excellent thing! I can't point a moral--or sing you the song-- My Years are too short--and your Ears are too long. UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. (AN EXPERIMENT.) When he whispers, "O Miss Bailey, Thou art brightest of the throng"-- She makes murmur, softly-gaily-- "Alfred, I have loved thee long." Then he drops upon his knees, a Proof his heart is soft as wax: She's--I don't know who, but he's a Captain bold from Halifax. Though so loving, such another Artless bride was never seen, Coachee thinks that she's his mother --Till they get to Gretna Green. There they stand, by him attended, Hear the sable smith rehearse That which links them, when 'tis ended, Tight for better--or for worse. Now her heart rejoices--ugly Troubles need disturb her less-- Now the Happy Pair are snugly Seated in the night express. So they go with fond emotion, So they journey through the night-- London is their land of Goshen-- See, its suburbs are in sight! Hark! the sound of life is swelling, Pacing up, and racing down, Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- Burley Street, by Somers Town. What is there to so astound them? She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" When five brats emerge, confound them! Shouting out, "Mama!--PAPA!" While at this he wonders blindly, Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly, "All of these are mine and thine!" * * * * * Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, Losing heart he loses pith-- Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic-- Swears that Moses was a myth.