I am of age, to ask Miss Ball, Or that great heiress, Miss Duval, To go to church, hump, squint, and all, And be my own for life. But put such reasons on their shelves, To tell the truth between ourselves, I’m one of those contented elves Who do not want a wife. What else belongs to Manhood still? I’m old enough to make my will With valid clause and codicil Before in turf I lie. But I have nothing to bequeath In earth, or waters underneath, And in all candour let me breathe, I do not want to die. Away! if this be Manhood’s forte, Put by the sherry and the port-- No ring of bells--no rustic sport-- No dance--no merry pipes! No flowery garlands--no bouquet-- No Birthday Ode to sing or say-- To me it seems this is a day For bread and cheese and swipes. To justify the festive cup What horrors here are conjured up! What things of bitter bite and sup, Poor wretched Twenty-One’s! No landed lumps, but frumps and humps, (Discretion’s Days are far from trumps) Domestic discord, dowdies, dumps, Death, dockets, debts, and duns! If you must drink, oh drink “the King,” Reform--the Church--the Press--the Ring, Drink Aldgate Pump--or anything, Before a toast like this! Nay, tell me, coming thus of age, And turning o’er this sorry page, Was young Nineteen so far from sage? Or young Eighteen from bliss? Till this dull, cold, wet, happy morn-- No sign of May about the thorn,-- Were Love and Bacchus both unborn? Had Beauty not a shape? Make answer, sweet Kate Finnerty! Make answer, lads of Trinity! Who sipp’d with me Divinity, And guaff’d the ruby grape! No flummery then from flowery lips, No three times three and hip-hip-hips, Because I’m ripe and full of pips-- I like a little green. To put me on my solemn oath, If sweep-like I could stop my growth I would remain, and nothing loth, A boy--about nineteen. My friends, excuse me these rebukes! Were I a monarch’s son, or duke’s, Go to the Vatican of Meux And broach his biggest barrels-- Impale whole elephants on spits-- Ring Tom of Lincoln till he splits, And dance into St. Vitus’ fits, And break your winds with carols! But ah! too well you know my lot, Ancestral acres greet me not, My freehold’s in a garden-pot, And barely worth a pin. Away then with all festive stuff! Let Robins advertise and puff My “Man’s Estate,” I’m sure enough I shall not buy it in. [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT, “MR. ROBINS.”] THE PILLORY. “Thro’ the wood, laddie.”--SCOTTISH SONG.