Dear Parson of the roguish eye! Thy face has grown historic, Since saint and sinner flocked to buy The homilies of Yorick. I fain would add one blossom to The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee. My friends, the crew that Yorick drew Accept, as friends bequeathed thee. At Shandy Hall I like to stop And see my ancient crony, Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop Astride a slender pony. Mine uncle, on his bowling-green, Still storms a breach in Flanders; And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean, With Bridget still philanders. And here again they visit us By happy inspiration, The "fortunes of Pisistratus," A tale of fascination. But lay his magic volume by, And thank the Great Enchanter;-- Our loins are girded, let us try A sentimental canter.... A Temple quaint of latest growth Expands, where Art and Science Astounded by our lack of both, Have founded an alliance. One picture there all passers scan, It rivets friend and stranger: Come, gaze on yonder guileless man, And tremble for his danger. Mine uncle's bluff--his waistcoat's buff,-- The heart beneath is tender.-- Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough! Thou fairest of thy gender. The limner's art!--the poet's pen!-- Posterity the story Shall tell how these three gifted men Have wrought for Yorick's glory. O name not easily forgot! Our love, dear Shade, we show thee, Regretting thy misdeeds, but not Forgetting what we owe thee. A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS. Minnie, in her hand a sixpence, Toddled off to buy some butter; (Minnie's pinafore was spotless) Back she brought it to the gutter, Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, Proud to be so largely trusted. One, two, three small steps she'd taken, Blissfully came little Minnie, When, poor darling! down she tumbled, Daubed her hands and face and pinny! Dropping too, the little slut, her Pat of butter in the gutter. Never creep back so despairing-- Dry those eyes, my little fairy: All of us start off in high glee, Many come back quite _contrairy_. I've mourned sixpences in scores too, Damaged hopes and pinafores too. LITTLE PITCHER. (A BIRTHDAY ODE.) The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine, Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine! 'Tis her _fete_--so, although retrospection is pleasant, While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present. A Gift!--In their praise she has raved, sung, and written, Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten; Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol: She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!