Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely! Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other--"Just look down there, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely!" They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teasingly, sneezingly. Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly. Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day? Oh, that would be the post for me! With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And empty at evening a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly! 'Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold! A Midnight Meditation. BY SIR E--- B--- L---. Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm! But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?