Bards of old have sung the vine Such a theme shall ne'er be mine; Weaker strains to me belong, Pæans sung to thee, Souchong! What though I may never sip Rubies from my tea-cup's lip; Do not milky pearls combine In this steaming cup of mine? What though round my youthful brow I ne'er twine the myrtle's bough? For such wreaths my soul ne'er grieves. Whilst I own my Twankay's leaves. Though for me no altar burns, Kettles boil and bubble--urns In each fane, where I adore-- What should mortal ask for more! I for Pidding, Bacchus fly, Howqua shall my cup supply; I'll ne'er ask for amphoræ, Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea. Then, perchance, above my grave, Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave; And some stately sugar-cane, There may spring to life again: Bright-eyed maidens then may meet, To quaff the herb and suck the sweet. * * * * * A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HACKNEY-COACH HORSES. KINDLY COMMUNICATED BY OUR DOG "TOBY." DEAR SIR,--I was a-sitting the other evening at the door of my kennel, thinking of the dog-days and smoking my pipe (blessings on you, master, for teaching me that art!), when one of your prospectuses was put into my paw by a spaniel that lives as pet-dog in a nobleman's family. Lawk, sir! what misfortunes can have befallen you, that you are obleeged to turn author? I remember the poor devil as used to supply us with _dialect_--what a face he had! It was like a mouth-organ turned edgeways; and he looked as hollow as the big drum, but warn't half so round and noisy. You can't have dwindled down to that, sure_ly_! I couldn't bear to see your hump and _pars pendula_ (that's dog Latin) shrunk up like dried almonds, and titivated out in msty-fusty toggery--I'm sure I couldn't! The very thought of it is like a pound weight at the end of my tail. I whined like any thing, calling to my missus--for you must know that I've married as handsome a Scotch terrier as you ever see. "Vixen," says I, "here's the poor old governor up at last--I knew that Police Act would drive him to something desperate." "Why he hasn't hung himself in earnest, and summoned you on his inquest!" exclaimed Mrs. T. "Worse nor that," says I; "he's turned author, and in course is stewed up in some wery elevated apartment during this blessed season of the year, when all nature is wagging with delight, and the fairs is on, and the police don't want nothing to do to warm 'em, and consequentially sees no harm in a muster of infantry in bye-streets. It's very hawful." Vixen sighed and scratched her ear with her right leg, so I know'd she'd something in her head, for she always does that when anything tickles her. "Toby," says she, "go and see the old gentleman; perhaps it might comfort him to larrup you a little."