No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing! But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!" So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "_Tant mi--eux_!" For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France! A PARTHIAN GLANCE. "Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."--ROGERS. Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail. Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise! And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!" What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, On a dimity lap of true nursery make! I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin-- Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in! Infant sorrows are strong--infant pleasures as weak-- But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak," Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat? Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce "Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game! Then an urchin--I see myself urchin indeed-- With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?--I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night. Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub? Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand? Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand? Then a school-boy--my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,-- But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt" That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!