A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with her finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma’am, you won’t believe it, but it’s Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--‘Why, where _is_ the powder blew!’” THE LAST WISH. When I resign this world so briary, To have across the Styx my ferrying, Oh, may I die without a DIARY! And be interr’d without a Bury-ing! * * * * * The poor dear dead have been laid out in vain, Turn’d into cash, they are laid out again! THE DEVIL’S ALBUM. It will seem an odd whim For a spirit so grim As the Devil to take a delight in; But by common renown He has come up to town, With an Album for people to write in! On a handsomer book Mortal never did look; Of a flame-colour silk is the binding! With a border superb, Where through flow’ret and herb, The old serpent goes brilliantly winding! By gilded grotesques, And emboss’d arabesques, The whole cover, in fact, is pervaded; But, alas! in a taste That betrays they were traced At the will of a Spirit degraded! As for paper--the best, But extremely hot-pressed, Courts the pen to luxuriate upon it, And against ev’ry blank There’s a note on the Bank, As a bribe for a sketch or a sonnet. Who will care to appear In the Fiend’s Souvenir, Is a question to mortals most vital; But the very first leaf, It’s the public belief, Will be filled by a Lady of Title! A VALENTINE. THE WEATHER. TO P. MURPHY, ESQ., M.N.S. These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action. Dear Murphy, to improve her charms, Your servant humbly begs; She thanks you for her leash of arms, But wants a brace of legs. Moreover, as you promise folks On certain days a drizzle; She thinks, in case she cannot rain, She should have means to _mizzle_. Some lightning too may just fall due, When woods begin to moult; And if she cannot “fork it out,” She’ll wish to make a _bolt_! CONVEYANCING. Oh, London is the place for all In love with loco-motion! Still to and fro the people go Like billows of the ocean; Machine or man, or caravan, Can all be had for paying, When great estates, or heavy weights, Or bodies want conveying. There’s always hacks about in packs, Wherein you may be shaken, And Jarvis is not always _drunk_, Tho’ always _overtaken_; In racing tricks he’ll never mix, His nags are in their last days, And _slow_ to go, altho’ they show As if they had their _fast days_!