"Did ye not hear it?—No, sir!—Never mind; P'raps 'twas the Atlas bus to Oxford Street. Strike up, you fiddlers!—Now, young feller, mind! Don't scrouge, or you shall go where police meet, To chase the knowing thieves with flying feet!— But hark! that sound is heard again—once more! And boys, with whistle shrill, its note repeat; And nearer, clearer, queerer than before!— Hats off!—It is, it is—the bell from prompter's door! "Ah! then was hurry-skurry, to and fro; And authors' oaths, and symptoms of a mess; And men as soldiers, who, two nights ago, Went round the circus in a Chinese dress! And there were rapid paintings, such as press On those who ply the arts, with choking size, Which ne'er might be completed! Who could guess How all would look before the public eyes, When on that 'Street in Brussels' the act drop would rise!" STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A VIEW OF ROSHERVILLE. BY A BANK CLERK. Oh, Rosherville! thou bringest all good things Home to the Gravesend beaux and city "gents:" A dinner for a shilling, rifles, swings, Baronial halls, arbours, and canvas tents! Where comic gentleman, or lady, sings, And Baron Nathan some fresh dance invents;[1] Or brave toxophilites the longbow draw, And strive to hit the Albert Tell of straw.[2] Sweet Eden! which for fivepence we may gain, Or there and back for ninepence by the _Star_; Upon whose deck, released from sacks and grain, Mark Lane Lotharios smoke the light cigar: Stock Exchange Stags, and clerks from Mincing Lane, Who prate of "consols," "shares," and "scrip," and "par," Crowding towards the gangway, as they near The Thames-washed steps of Rosherville's fair pier. Enchanted chalk-pit! from thy lonely tower Signor Gellini,[3] amidst flames of fire, Glides on the single rope, by magic power, When Chiarini Cocoa-nuts retire;[4] And as it darker grows, in every bower Soft whispered nothings—tales of love, transpire— All this for sixpence! Can such misers be! Who'd grudge that sum, sweet Rosherville, to thee? Yes, Gravesend! to thy shrimps my memory clings, And to that loved one—would I could forget her!— Who tied in double knots my heart's young strings; Dating from Parrock Street each scented letter, But flew from me, one day, on fancy's wings, All for another gent as she loved better; And left me lonely, in a dark dilemma, On Windmill Hill, to warble "Faithless Emma."[5]