Burn all bores and boring topics; Burn Brunel--aye, in his hole! Burn all _subjects_ that are Irish! Burn the niggers black as coal! Burn all Boz’s imitators! Burn all tales without a head! Burn a candle near the curtain! Burn your Burns, and burn your bed! Burn all wrongs that won’t be righted, Poor poor Soup, and Spanish claims-- Burn that Bell, and burn his Vixen! Burn all sorts of burning shames! Burn the Whigs! and burn the Tories! Burn all parties, great and small! Burn that everlasting Poynder-- Burn his Suttees once for all! Burn the fop that burns tobacco. Burn a Critic that condemns.-- Burn Lucifer and all his matches! Burn the fool that burns the Thames! Burn all burning agitators-- Burn all torch-parading elves! And oh! burn Parson Stephen’s speeches, If they haven’t burnt themselves. COPY. A NEW SPECIES OF POETRY. If I were used to writing verse, And had a Muse not so perverse, But prompt at Fancy’s call to spring And Carol like a bird in Spring; Or like a Bee, in summer time, That hums about a bed of thyme, And gathers honey and delights From ev’ry blossom where it ‘lights; If I, alas! had such a Muse, To touch the Reader or amuse, And breathe the true poetic vein, This page should not be fill’d in vain! But ah! the power was never mine To dig for gems in Fancy’s mine: Or wander over land and main To seek the Fairies’ old domain-- To watch Apollo while he climbs His throne in oriental climes; Or mark the “gradual dusky veil” Drawn over Tempé’s tuneful vale, In classic lays remembered long-- Such flights to bolder wings belong; To Bards who on that glorious height, Of sun and song, Parnassus hight, Partake the fire divine that burns, } In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns, } Who sang his native braes and burns. } For me a novice strange and new, Who ne’er such inspiration knew, But weave a verse with travail sore, Ordain’d to creep and not to soar, A few poor lines alone I write, Fulfilling thus a friendly rite, Not meant to meet the Critic’s eye, For oh! to hope from such as I, For anything that’s fit to read, Were trusting to a broken reed! _1st of April, 1840._ E. M. G. SKIPPING. A MYSTERY. Little Children skip, The rope so gaily gripping, Tom and Harry, Jane and Mary, Kate, Diana, Susan, Anna, All are fond of skipping! The Grasshoppers all skip, The early dew-drop sipping, Under, over, Bent and clover, Daisy, sorrel, Without quarrel, All are fond of skipping! The tiny Fairies skip, At midnight softly tripping; Puck and Peri, Never weary, With an antic, Quite romantic, All are fond of skipping!