He has shav’d off his whiskers and blacken’d his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hair,-- But it’s him--Oh it’s him!--we exchanged lovers’ vows, When I lived up in Cavendish Square. He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, And his voice was as soft as a flute-- Like a Lord or a Marquis he look’d when he came, To make love in his master’s best suit. If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told; How he lov’d me beyond the rich women of earth, With their jewels and silver and gold? When he kiss’d me and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons, Oh how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye To my Missis’s tea-pot and spoons! LINES BY A SCHOOL-BOY. When I was first a scholar, I went to Dr. Monk, And elephant-like I had, sir, a cake put in my trunk; The Rev. Doctor Monk, sir, was very grave and prim, He stood full six foot high, sir, and we all looked up to him. They didn’t pinch and starve us, as here they do at York, For every boy was ask’d, sir, to bring a knife and fork. And then I had a chum too, to fag and all of that, I made him sum up my sums too, and eat up all my fat. For goodness we had prizes, and birch for doing ill, But none of the Birch that visits the bottom of Cornhill. And we’d half a dozen ushers to teach us Latin and Greek, And all we’d got in our heads, sir, was combed out once a week. And then we had a shop, too, for lollipops and squibs, Where I often had a lick, sir, at Buonaparty’s ribs! Oh! if I was at Clapham, at my old school again, In the rod I could fancy honey, and sugar in the cane. ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE. “It was Maria!-- And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid-- She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter’s once--and returned back--.” _See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers._ Thou art come back again to the stage Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it; And ’tis well for this fortunate age That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it! It is pleasant to see thee again-- Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé, Unmolested by pea-colour’d Hayne! And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley! Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light (Not _my_ Foote--I speak by correction) As the snow on some mountain at night, Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. The Pit is in raptures to free thee, The Boxes impatient to greet thee, The Galleries quite clam’rous to see thee, And thy scenic relations to meet thee!