Oh Peace! but there is Major Monk, At variance with his wife--Oh Peace! And that great German, Vander Trunk, And that great talker, Miss Apreece; Oh Peace! so dear to poets’ quills-- They’re just beginning their quadrilles-- Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;-- I wonder where I put my waiter-- Oh Peace!--but here my Ode I’ll cease; I have no peace to write of Peace. A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN. When I reflect with serious sense, While years and years run on, How soon I may be summoned hence-- There’s cook a-calling John. Our lives are built so frail and poor, On sand and not on rocks, We’re hourly standing at Death’s door-- There’s some one double-knocks. All human days have settled terms, Our fates we cannot force; This flesh of mine will feed the worms-- They’re come to lunch of course. And when my body’s turn’d to clay, And dear friends hear my knell, O let them give a sigh and say-- I hear the upstairs bell. TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON VALENTINE’S DAY. Mary, you know I’ve no love-nonsense, And, though I pen on such a day, I don’t mean flirting, on my conscience, Or writing in the courting way. Though Beauty hasn’t form’d your feature, It saves you, p’rhaps, from being vain, And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain. Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller. You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty, But, doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty. Let Susan flourish her fair arms And at your odd legs sneer and scoff, But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of. [Illustration: WHAT ODD LEGS!] PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT. A SEA ECLOGUE. “I apprehend you!”--SCHOOL OF REFORM. BOATMAN. SHOVE off there!--ship the rudder, Bill--cast off! she’s under way! MRS. F. She’s under what?--I hope she’s not! good gracious, what a spray! BOATMAN. Run out the jib, and rig the boom! keep clear of those two brigs! MRS. F. I hope they don’t intend some joke by running of their rigs! [Illustration: SEE-VIEW:--BROAD STARES.] BOATMAN. Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft--she’s rather out of trim! MRS. F. Great bags of stones! they’re pretty things to help a boat to swim! BOATMAN. The wind is fresh--if she don’t scud, it’s not the breeze’s fault! MRS. F. Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt! BOATMAN. That Schooner, Bill, harn’t left the roads, with oranges and nuts! MRS. F. If seas have roads, they’re very rough--I never felt such ruts! BOATMAN. It’s neap, ye see, she’s heavy lade, and couldn’t pass the bar. MRS. F.