Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet. Beside his place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a STAR he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's. Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations. Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all. Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company. THE KISS. Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight. Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move Ah, no!--again--that kiss was wrong How can you be so dull, my love? "Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied And in her milky arms she caught me "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!" EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET--(ROBERT SOUTHEY.) Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did! Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all; Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water. And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honor's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack. Death, weary of so dull a writer, Put to his works a FINIS thus. Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter Than did his quartos upon us! WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the "Book of Follies." This journal of folly's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO? None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms; Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS! THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN. They tell us that Woman was made of a rib Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side; But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib, And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied. For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span; And when Nature cut off this appendage behind, Why--then woman was made of the tail of the man.