A short time since my wife and I A short call had to make, And giving me a _kiss_, she said-- "A _buss_ you'd better take!" 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] 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 ornee 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.