On the day of rest divine, He poor townsfolk would confine In their crowded streets and lanes, Where they can not hear your strains. All the week they drudge away, Having but one holiday; No more time for you, than that-- Unlike bishops, rich and fat. Utter not your cheerful sounds, Therefore, in the bishop's grounds; Make him melody no more, Who denies you to the poor. Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush! Throstle, be a songless thrush; Nightingale and lark, be mute, Never sing to such a brute. Robin, at the twilight dim, Never let thine evening hymn, Bird of red and ruthful breast, Lend the bishop's Port a zest. Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, Keeping us from fields and flowers, Who to pen us tries, instead, 'Mong the intramural dead. Only let the raven croak At him from the rotten oak; Let the magpie and the jay Chatter at him on his way. And when he to rest has laid him, Let his ears the screech-owl harry; And the night-jar serenade him With a proper charivari. THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH. Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite; Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid To paint the sufferings they can not write: Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts, Let slender youths in agony expire; Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts Roast at some fierce imaginary fire. Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes, See her own ALFRED to the old church tower Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses; Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal, Wherein two doves their little bills entwine; (A vile device, which always makes me feel Marriage would only add your bills to mine.) For arts like these I've neither skill nor time; But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid, And share my fortune in that happier clime, Your berth is taken, and your passage paid. For reading, lately, in my list of things, "Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too! The horrid host of buttons and of strings Flashed on my spirit, and I thought--of you. "Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived-- That vast receptacle of all things known-- "To teach this truth my outfit was contrived, It is not good for man to be alone!" Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore (Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons), And though she's nearly full, can take some more Dry goods, by measurement--say GREEN and SONS. Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind, We might have married, and been happy HERE; But since young married folks the means must find The eyes of stern society to cheer, And satisfy its numerous demands, I think 'twill save us many a vain expense, If on our wedding cards this Notice stands, "At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"