For many lang months sin’ I cam’ to the crown Auld Bizzy’s been hecklin’ and haudin’ me down; I’ve held by his coat-tails this aught months and ten, But I’ll never gang back to auld Bizzy again. I’ve held by his coat-tails, etc. The Last Resource. At forty-three, in broken health, The heel of Fate has crushed my pride; No joy I find in work or wealth-- There’s nothing left but suicide. The wind blows ever from the east; It’s madness now my trike to ride; My pony’s lame, poor little beast-- There’s nothing left but suicide. My hair is thin, my face is fat, My waist is spreading far and wide; Last week I lost my favourite cat-- There’s nothing left but suicide. I am not starred on any bills, The critics all my work deride; I’m sick of taking draughts and pills-- There’s nothing left but suicide. I am too sad to make a joke, The girl I love’s another’s bride; The doctors will not let me smoke-- There’s nothing left but suicide. My house, I find, is built on clay, In vain to let it I have tried; The income tax is due to-day-- There’s nothing left but suicide. What’s this?--a box of chocolates, With pale pink ribbon neatly tied? The “sweets of life” again, O Fates, I taste, and laugh at suicide. Ye Bars and Gates. Ye bars and gates o’ Bloomsbury, How can ye stand so silent there? How can ye, knowing ye are doomed, From some sma’ signs o’ grief forbear? He’ll break his heart, will Bedford’s duke, Whose grandeur County Councils spurn, As he bemoans his feudal rights-- Departed never to return. Ye bars and gates, ye’re comin’ doon; No more ye’ll block the freeman’s path, And make the traveller lose his train, Or rouse the British cabman’s wrath. Wi’ lightsome heart we root ye up, And leave the streets o’ London free; And there’s but one will mourn your loss, And that’s his grace the Duke of B. Portrait of a Prince. (BY A SOCIETY GOSSIPER.) He’s the dropsy, he’s the gout, And he looks like pegging out; And he’s sobbing and he’s sighing all the day-- All the day. He is haggard, he is pale, And his limbs begin to fail, And his whiskers and moustache are going gray-- Going gray. He is but a bag of bones, And he lies awake and groans, When he’s carried by his valet up to bed-- Up to bed. He is hollow cheeked and eyed, And, though everything is tried, He never sleeps a moment for neuralgia in the head-- In the head.