I’ve fitted bullets to my pistol-bore; I’ve vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray, Quite sick of number one--and number four Over the way! Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy, Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé, A horse--a cow--six fowls--a pig--and Mary Over the way! Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white, Standing before the altar, like a fay; Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite Over the way! I’ve coo’d with her in dreams, like any turtle, I’ve snatch’d her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay; Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle Over the way! Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop, Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat “poshay,” And showered crowns to make the horses gallop Over the way! And thrice I’ve started up from dreams appalling Of killing rivals in a bloody fray-- There is a young man very fond of calling Over the way! Oh! happy man--above all kings in glory, Whoever in her ear may say his say, And add a tale of love to that one story Over the way! Nabob of Arcot--Despot of Japan-- Sultan of Persia--Emperor of Cathay-- Much rather would I be the happy man Over the way! With such a lot my heart would be in clover-- But what--oh horror!--what do I survey! Postillions and white favours!--all is over Over the way! [Illustration: A RUNAWAY MATCH.] A PLAN FOR WRITING BLANK VERSE IN RHYME, IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR. RESPECTED SIR, In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and motives--the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of Moux’s dray horses,--there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph. “Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall emaciated being, in a brown coat, indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the raggedness of which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligence to his countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor. It was evident from his preliminary bow that he had made some discoveries in the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordship, but the Lord Mayor perceiving by his accent that he had already submitted his project to several of the leading Publishers, referred him back to the same jurisdiction, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses withdrew, declaring by another bow, that he should offer his plan to the Editor of the Comic Annual.”