LOVE’S PROGRESS OF A TOBACCONIST.

For the Table Book.

When bless’d with Fanny’s rosy smiles,
I thought myself in heaven;
Fanny is blooming twenty-two,
And I am—thirty-seven.

I thought her deck’d with every grace,
Without one vice to jar,
Fresh as new carrot was her face
And sweet as Macabar.

Besides a person fair to view
She had a thousand pounds;
Not to be sneezed at—I had two,
And credit without bounds.

Our courtship oft consisted in
Slight taps and gentle knocks;
And when I gave her a small pinch,
She quick return’d a box.

Howe’er, one morning, in a rage,
With me herself she put,
She call’d me blackguard, and declar’d
I was from thence short cut.

In vain I tried the cause to smoke,
When she had ta’en offence;
In vain recall’d the words I spoke,
That she had deem’d bad scents.

But soon a mutual friend contriv’d
Our quarrel up to botch;
Fanny confess’d her temper warm—
’Twas natural—she was Scotch.

We married—snugly in my shop
Fanny’s become a fixture,
And all the neighbourhood declare,
We’re quite a pleasant mixture.

Sam Sam’s Son.