Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Rosae ubi liliaque et violae patent; Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo Gemmulus tangens, quae suave olent! Regna et opes ego neutiquam postulo, Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent―― Ah sim Papilio, natus in flosculo, Osculans gemmas quae suave olent! Magicam si possem virgam furari, Alas has pulchras aptem mi, eheu! Æstivis actis diebus in aëre, Rosâ cubant Philomelae cantu. Opes quid afferunt? Curas, somnum rare; Regna nil praeter aerumnas, eheu! Ah sim Papilio, die volans aëre, Rosâ cubans Philomelae cantu! Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore Frigora Automni ferire suo; Æstas quando abiit, mallem ego mori, Omni quod dulce est cadente pulchro. Bramae qui capiunt captent labore Gaudia, et moras breves trahunto―― Ah sim Papilio; vivam in errore, Concidamque omni cadente pulchro. _January_, 1828. ―――― AN ANSWER TO MR. BAYLY. I would not be a butterfly, Nay, Mr. Bayly nay, Although you rhyme to ear and eye In such a dainty way. Those pretty words, that pretty air Admit but this reply, It strikes me I should hardly care To be a butterfly. A charm there is in being born Within a rosy bower, Where sunshine and a summer morn Should grace my natal hour. But I was born a cockney, sir, A cockney I shall die, Pray why on earth should I prefer To be a butterfly? The plants that in a garden grow Are fresh and very sweet, But more befitting for a show Than proper things to eat. I love my soup, I love my fish, My joint and apple-pie, My menu never makes me wish To be a butterfly. ’Tis only just a month or so The things can keep alive, One year’s career they never know, And mine are forty-five. I hope to earn a little fame Ere many more go by, It would not be a paying game To be a butterfly. I tell you frankly Mr. B. I would not if I could, In fact so far as I can see I could not if I would. To many things we all aspire, For many things we sigh, But why should mortal man desire To be a _butterfly_? HENRY S. LEIGH. ―――― I’D BE A PARODY. I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny Or some little song with a popular tune, Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny, (Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?) I’d be a parody made by a ninny, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.