No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing ’em-- No knowing ’em!-- No travelling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- “No go”--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No Park--no Ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,-- November! THE LOST HEIR. “Oh, where, and oh where Is my bonny laddie gone?”--OLD SONG One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry That chill’d my very blood; And lo! from out a dirty alley, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, I saw a crazy woman sally, Bedaub’d with grease and mud. She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West, Staring like Pythoness possest, With streaming hair and heaving breast As one stark mad with grief. This way and that she wildly ran, Jostling with woman and with man-- Her right hand held a frying pan, The left a lump of beef. At last her frenzy seem’d to reach A point just capable of speech, And with a tone almost a screech, As wild as ocean birds, Or female Ranter mov’d to preach, She gave her “sorrow words.”