I play a spade--such strange new faces Are flocking in from near and far: Such frights--Miss Dobbs holds all the aces.-- One can't imagine who they are! The lodgings at enormous prices, New donkeys, and another fly-- And Madame Bonbon out of ices, Although we're scarcely in July-- We're quite as sociable as any, But our old horse can hardly crawl-- And really where there are so many, We can't tell where we ought to call. Pray who has seen the odd old fellow Who took the Doctor's house last week?-- A pretty chariot,--livery yellow, Almost as yellow as his cheek-- A widower, sixty-five, and surly, And stiffer than a poplar-tree-- Drinks rum and water, gets up early To dip his carcass in the sea-- He's always in a monstrous hurry, And always talking of Bengal; They say his cook makes noble curry-- I think, Louisa, we should call. And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker, Has let her cottage on the hill?-- The drollest man, a sugar-baker, Last year imported from the till-- Prates of his _orses_ and his _oney_, Is quite in love with fields and farms-- A horrid Vandal,--but his money Will buy a glorious coat of arms; Old Clyster makes him take the waters; Some say he means to give a ball-- And after all, with thirteen daughters, I think, Sir Thomas, you might call. That poor young man!--I'm sure and certain Despair is making up his shroud: He walks all night beneath the curtain Of the dim sky and murky cloud-- Draws landscapes,--throws such mournful glances!-- Writes verses,--has such splendid eyes-- An ugly name,--but Laura fancies He's some great person in disguise! And since his dress is all the fashion, And since he's very dark and tall, I think that, out of pure compassion, I'll get papa to go and call. So Lord St. Ives is occupying The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel-- Last Saturday his man was trying A little nag I want to sell. He brought a lady in the carriage-- Blue eyes,--eighteen, or thereabouts-- Of course, you know, we _hope_ it's marriage! But yet the _femme de chambre_ doubts. She look'd so pensive when we met her-- Poor thing! and such a charming shawl! Well! till we understand it better, It's quite impossible to call. Old Mr. Fund, the London banker, Arrived to-day at Premium Court-- I would not, for the world, cast anchor In such a horrid dangerous port-- Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster, (Contractors play the meanest tricks) The roof's as crazy as its master, And he was born in fifty-six-- Stairs creaking--cracks in every landing, The colonnade is sure to fall-- We sha'n't find post or pillar standing, Unless we make great haste to call.