I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?" Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about." He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy! MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!" Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well! THE GHOST. R. HARRIS BARHAM. There stands a City,--neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty; It matters very little--if at all-- Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!-- Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it. A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entombed within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, --Till four assassins came from France to crack it. The Castle was a huge and antique mound, Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, Ere those abominable guns were found, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver It stands upon a gently rising ground, Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese--but taller. The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows In short, so great a change has come to pass, Tis now a manufactory of Gas.