Oh no! we’ll never mention him; We won’t, upon our word! “Decorum” now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard. From Drury Lane we’ll toddle to Our office with regret, And if they ask us, “Who’s been dished!” We’ll say that We forget! We’ll bid him now forsake the “Scene,” And try his ancient strain; He’d better “be a butterfly” Than write a farce again. ’Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender chansonette; But if you ask us, “What beside”? Why, really, we forget. R. H. BARHAM, Author of _The Ingoldsby Legends_. ―――― A SONG. _Written by a rusticated Trinity man, while brooding over the conduct of the Proctor of 1827._ Oh! no we never mention him, His name is never heard, My lips are now so loth to speak That once familiar word; From street to street he followed me One evening thro’ the west, Then brought me to the Vice, which now He thinks that I forget. They bade me seek in rustic ease A quiet man to be, But when I come to Trin: again They’ll find no change in me. ’Tis true that I behold no more The alley where we met, I do not see dear Mr. T. But still I shan’t forget. They tell me he is happy now, But each dog has his day, They tell me he forgets me now But he soon shall dearly pay; For when near me he struggles with A crowd of snobs beset, Then if I hit as I have hit, He never shall forget. M. _The Gownsman._ February 18, 1830, (or 1831?) ―――― SONG BY SIR ROBERT PEEL. Notwithstanding the length of time that has now elapsed since the breaking up of the Tory Administration, there is scarcely a member of it who does not still look back with a feeling of the most melancholy regret to the days when he once fingered the public money within the walls of the Treasury. On Sir Robert Peel the effect that has been produced is as vivid as it seemed the first hour after his resignation, and the unhappy baronet is often heard to give vent to his sensations, after the debate of the night, in the following exquisitely touching stanzas:―― Oh no we never finger it, Its name we never say, My fingers are forbid to grasp The once familiar pay. From Bill to Bill they hurry me, To banish my regret, And when they win a speech from me, They think that I forget. They bid me seek by change of note The place where rivals be, But were I e’en to turn a Whig, There’d be no place for me. ’Tis true that I no more behold The council where we met, I do not see the Treasury, But how can I forget?