In Brummel’s day of buckle-shoes, Starch cravats, and roll collars, They’d talk, and woo, and bet――and lose Like gentlemen and scholars, But now young nobles go the pace With blacklegs, grooms, and tailors; And scions soon of noblest race May pass the night with jailors. Worse times may come, _Bon ton_, alas, Will then be quite forgotten, And all we much revere will pass From ripe to worse than rotten; Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones, And owls will roost at Boodle’s, And shame will echo back the tones Of Coachington, Lord Noodle. F. L. _The Queen’s Messenger._ August 12, 1869. ―――― ST. GILES. A London poet sang of late In exquisitely tender verses, How in their whirl the wheels of Fate, Changed cars of triumph into hearses. He said St. James’s wit and smiles Were trodden under foot by shoddy―― Bah! let me sing about St. Giles, And chronicle the sin of toddy. Long years ago, St. Martin’s Fields Were ripe with grain and purple clover Where grisly thieves the kitchen shields, And yellow ’busses topple over. The very spot, where rose the lark To sing its song to all creation, Is given over after dark To deathly deeds and desolation. Just where the parson from his door Relieved the sorrows of the humble, The workhouse shields the houseless poor, Who execrate the mighty Bumble. A thousand nightingales in song Have warbled melodies for ages, Where now canary-sellers throng, And linnets chirp in tiny cages. Where Strephon sighed and sighed to win, And dainty Phyllis churned her butter, The costermonger shrieks for gin, And helpless rolls about the gutter; Where Sacharissa ’neath her fan Was smiling at his lordship’s raving, The ragged wife adores the man, Who beats her head against the paving. There’s not a spot and not a stone, But spoke a poem when we met it, That does not echo to the moan Of poverty――do we regret it? If we have sorrow for St. James, And sing about its loss of swelldom, We needs must weep St. Giles’s shames, Although we think about them seldom. HENRY S. LEIGH. _Fun._ November 16, 1867. ――――:o:―――― TEMPORA MUTANTUR! Yes, here, once more a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids and serving-men Receive me with a grin: Surely they can’t remember Me, My hair is grey and scanter; I’m changed, so changed since I was here―― _O tempora mutantur!_ * * * * *