No plumes you see to-night, I don't suppose,
Only a black box, and just half a prayer.
No one to cry and sob, or watch the dust
I fling, a dratting of the damp night air.
O Lord! this rheumatiz! damn suicides!

Don't they know wrong from right? Bah! cutting

throats

And costs the parish something, too, besides."

HOW THE PASTY WAS POISONED. (Temp. Elizabeth.)

THIS is the pasty for the wedding dinner,
The high-wall'd pasty lordly in its dish ;
Cupids dance round the crust, as I'm a sinner.—
The cook's away, scraping the spangled fish,
Say that I lift the paste and add a spice ;—
No harm, I trow-bad seasoning's a vice.

Ah, ah! the supper!-he who wrong'd us, smiling,
Bowing, the grace cup lifted in his hand,

The foolish guests by turns with grins beguiling,
And counting to himself the dowry land.

Of course, red blushing at the eyes that gaze,
The bride beside him with his sword knot plays.

Now for next morning, when the music comes To wake the pair-they must play very loud; Away with fluting whistles! send for drums;

Beat till your hearts ache, foolish piping crowd. At the gilt chamber door the varlets wait, And wonder why the couple sleep so late.

Never was pasty season'd quite so well;

Ten grains of stibium smear'd the venison round, Never was fool so neatly sent to hell.

Snug goes my master's rival under groundNow, then, for home-and fully worth the gold, Twenty-four angels by the steward told.

He weigh'd the spices with such anxious skill,
In his glass scales upon the furnace shelf;
Could not have done it with more kindly will,

Though measuring doses for his lady's self.
He smiled (his mouth, not eyes) when he wrapp'd

up

This precious drug, and pointed to a cup.

Now for confession, just to take the taste

Out of my mouth, then to old Darcy's mask, To talk all night, as the sweet tapers waste, Of poor Trelawney's sudden death, and ask If the thing's true?-for silly stories fly From tongue to tongue, then hear the thing, and sigh.

THE SUCCORY WATER.
(Louis Quatorze.)

WHY who could fancy now Montesson there-
She with that fairy little crimson shoe,
Puffed round with swans' down, balanced with
such care

On tiptoe of her dancing foot-but two
Or three short minutes-only when the hour
The gilded cupid touched-with half shut eye,
Dropped something deadly in the succory jug,
Falling back languid and I watching by.

Thinking no eye was on her-painted whore!
Now by her love-knot hanging to my sword,
And by this favour stolen from her curls;

I will disclose it to her wittol lord :

Yes, by her glove, still faint with wanton scent,
I will prick out this viper from her lair,

Unmask her in the full flush of the court,

Brand the lewd harlot on her whitewashed

cheek,

And open out this plague-den to the air.

But first unmask her; see, she shams asleep,

Her rounded brow propped by her dainty hand. Fool! I remember when to buy one kiss

I would have beggared self of house and land; But now, ah, well! there have been other fools! Cæsar, for instance ;-Sampson-yes, well, well! Poison for me, to cure my doting;-Jules,

Bring me a flambeau when I clash the bell.

Now for a rough hand on her velvet arm;
Awake my lady-I am off to court.

This succory water's curdled, Rosa lapped,

And died five minutes since. Ah! harlot

caught.

No tricks for me: how pale the witch's face— Cold, dead. Ring the alarm bell-she has escaped.

Death has tricked Justice! cut her boddice lace;

Bring water; beautiful devil, how she's shaped!