VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

Oh raucous street—"Echo," whose vile vox clamantis

Is, like the Salvationist's shout, heard a mile hence,

I wish, how I wish,—ah! yes, that what we want is!—

Some Cockney Narcissus could charm you to silence.

Ah, me! no such luck; in the clear autumn twilight

Your shriek on my tympanum stridently jars.

"Echo" murders repose, mars the daffodil sky light;

And if one thing sounds worse 'tis "the Voice of the Stars"!

Sir J-m-s F-rg-ss-n loquitur:—

Just in time to catch the Post!

Pheugh! But the Pats would have "had me on toast"

(As 'ARRY would say in his odious slang),

If I had been but a little bit later.

Out o' breath as it is. Ah, hang

This hurrying business! My mouth's like a crater,

Dreadfully dry, and doosedly hot.

Rather a downer, this is, for SCOTT's lot!

Feared Mrs. Manchester might just say

(In the popular patter of my young day)

"It is all very well (with a wink and a jeer),

But you, Master FERGUSSON, don't lodge here!"

All right now, though! Saved my bacon.

My defeat might the Cause have shaken.

Just in time. There! Popped it in!

Awfully glad it conveys a Win;

Although One Fifty ain't much to boast,—

'Twixt you and me and the (General) Post!