We journey’d on—two lively cads, Were for our custom triers; And in a twinkling we were fix’d Fast by this pair of pliers! My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine, But soon they forced her from it; And she was lugg’d into the Sun, And I into the Comet! Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat, Each one against me pushing; And my poor gouty legs seem’d made For each one’s pins—a cushion! My wife some time had gone before: I urged the jarvey's speed, When all at once the bus set off At fearful pace, indeed! I ask’d the coachee what caused this? When thus his story ran:— “Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so An oss shied at a man!” Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash! At such a rate we run, That presently the Comet came In contact with the Sun. At that sad time each body felt, As parting with its soul, We were, indeed, a little whirl’d, And shook from pole to pole! Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows. PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR. A SONG OF TON. Why, y-e-s—‘twas rather late last night; In fact, past six this morning. My rascal valet, in a fright, Awoke, and gave me warning. But what of that?—I’m very young. And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or, Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue, So—pray don’t tell the Governor.1 1. The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in the terra incognita of allowable rhythm. I dined a quarter after seven, With Dashall of the Lancers; Went to the opera at eleven, To see the ballet-dancers. From thence I saunter’d to the club— Fortune to me’s a sloven—or, I surely must have won one rub, But—mind! don’t tell the Governor! I went to Ascot t’other day, Drove Kitty in a tandem; Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray— I’d dined, so drove at random. I betted high—an “outside” won— I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or It ne’er the favourite horse had done, But—don’t you tell the Governor. My cottage ornée down at Kew, So picturesque and pretty, Cost me of thousands not a few, To fit it up for Kitty. She said it charm’d her fancy quite, But (still I can’t help loving her) She bolted with the plate one night— You needn’t tell the Governor. My creditors are growing queer, Nay, threaten to be furious; I’ll scan their paltry bills next year, At present I’m not curious. Such fellows are a monstrous bore, So I and Harry Grosvenor To-morrow start for Gallia’s shore, And leave duns—to the Governor.