TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE.

"Rien n'est changé, mes amis!"[²]

CHARLES DIX.

I heard a sick man's dying sigh,

And an infant's idle laughter;

The old Year went with mourning by,

The new came dancing after;

Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,

Let Revelry hold her ladle;

Bring boughs of cypress for the biel.

Fling roses on the cradle;

Mates to wait on the funeral state!

Pages to pour the wine!

And a requiem for Twenty-eight,—

And a health to Twenty-nine.

Alas! for human happiness,

Alas! for human sorrow;

Our Yesterday is nothingness,

What else will be our Morrow?

Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,

And Knavery stealing purses;

Still Cooks must live by making tarts,

And Wits by making verses;

While Sages prate and Courts debate,

The same Stars set and shine;

And the World, as it roll'd through Twenty-eight,

Must roll through Twenty-nine.

Some King will come, in Heaven's good time,

To the tomb his Father came to;

Some Thief will wade through blood and crime

To a crown he has no claim to;

Some Suffering Land will rend in twain

The manacles that bound her,

And gather the links of the broken chain

To fasten them proudly round her;

The grand and great will love, and hate,

And combat, and combine;

And much where we were in Twenty-eight,

We shall be in Twenty-nine.

O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent,

And Kenyon to sink the Nation;

And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,

And Peel the Association;

And the thought of bayonets and swords

Will make ex-Chancellors merry—

And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,

And throats in the County Kerry;

And writers of weight will speculate

On the Cabinet's design—

And just what it did in Twenty-eight,

It will do in Twenty-nine.

Mathews will be extremely gay,

And Hook extremely dirty;

And brick and mortar still will say

"Try Warren, No. 30;"

And "General Sauce" will have its puff,

And so will General Jackson—

And peasants will drink up heavy stuff,

Which they pay a heavy tax on;

And long and late, at many a fête,

Gooseberry champagne will shine—

And as old as it was in Twenty-eight,

It will be in Twenty-nine.

And the Goddess of Love will keep her smiles;

And the God of Cups his orgies;

And there'll be riots in St. Giles,

And weddings in St. George's;

And Mendicants will sup like Kings,

And Lords will swear like Lacqueys—

And black eyes oft will lead to rings,

And rings will lead to black eyes;

And pretty Kate will scold her mate.

In a dialect all divine—

Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,—

They will part in Twenty-nine!

John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill,

Will do a deed of mystery—

The Morning Chronicle will fill

Five columns with the history;

The Jury will be all surprise,

The Prisoner quite collected—

And Justice Park will wipe his eyes,

And be very much affected;

And folks will relate poor Corder's fate,

As they hurry home to dine,

Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight

With the hangings of Twenty-nine.

A Curate will go from the house of prayer

To wrong his worthy neighbour,

By dint of quoting the texts of Blair,

And singing the songs of Weber;

Sir Harry will leave the Craven hounds,

To trace the guilty parties—

And ask of the Court five thousand pounds,

To prove how rack'd his heart is:

An Advocate will execrate

The spoiler of Hymen's shrine—

And the speech that did for Twenty-eight

Will do for Twenty-nine.

My Uncle will swathe his gouty limbs,

And tell of his oils and blubbers;

My Aunt, Miss Dobbs, will play longer hymns,

And rather longer rubbers;

My Cousin in Parliament will prove

How utterly ruin'd trade is—

My Brother at Eton will fall in love

With half a hundred ladies;

My Patron will sate his pride from plate.

And his thirst from Bordeaux vine—

His nose was red in Twenty-eight,—

'Twill be redder in Twenty-nine!

And oh! I shall find, how, day by day.

All thoughts and things look older—

How the laugh of Pleasure grows less gay,

And the heart of Friendship colder;

But still I shall be what I have been,

Sworn foe to Lady Reason,

And seldom troubled with the spleen,

And fond of talking treason;

I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate,

And throw, and write, my line—

And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight,

I shall worship in Twenty-nine!

New Monthly Magazine.