No doubt the Editor of ‘Notes and Queries’ Or ‘Things not generally known’ could tell That word’s real force—my only lurking fear is That the great Gammer “didna ken hersel”: (I’ve precedent, yet feel I owe apology For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology). Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon For making this unwarranted digression, Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary’s garden:— And beg to send, with every expression Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes, For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times. There is a youth, who keeps a ‘crumpled Horn,’ (Living next me, upon the selfsame story,) And ever, ’twixt the midnight and the morn, He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie. The tune is good; the habit p’raps romantic; But tending, if pursued, to drive one’s neighbours frantic. And now,—at this unprecedented hour, When the young Dawn is “trampling out the stars,”— I hear that youth—with more than usual power And pathos—struggling with the first few bars. And I do think the amateur cornopean Should be put down by law—but that’s perhaps Utopian. Who knows what “things unknown” I might have “bodied Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too? But don’t I know that when my friend has plodded Through the first verse, the second will ensue? Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely Send the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely. ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE. NOW the “rosy morn appearing” Floods with light the dazzled heaven; And the schoolboy groans on hearing That eternal clock strike seven:— Now the waggoner is driving Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the bluebottle, reviving, Buzzes down his native pane. But to me the morn is hateful: Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful Of (perhaps inferior) eggs. Yesterday Miss Crump, by message, Mentioned “rent,” which “p’raps I’d pay;” And I have a dismal presage That she’ll call, herself, to-day. Once, I breakfasted off rosewood, Smoked through silver-mounted pipes— Then how my patrician nose would Turn up at the thought of “swipes!” Ale,—occasionally claret,— Graced my luncheon then:—and now I drink porter in a garret, To be paid for heaven knows how. When the evening shades are deepened, And I doff my hat and gloves, No sweet bird is there to “cheep and Twitter twenty million loves:” No dark-ringleted canaries Sing to me of “hungry foam;” No imaginary “Marys” Call fictitious “cattle home.”