VALENTINE'S DAY.

It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover,

That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover;

There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly;

The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy.

There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen,

He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of High-men.

And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter,

It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a haltar:

But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed,

To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed.

14 Blackstone d. 1780.

Judge of A-Size.

Judge Blackstone was a learned judge,

As wise as ever sat,

He wore his head within his wig,

His wig within his hat.

Judge Blackstone made a learned book

On subjects, and on kings,

And many reasons sage he gave

For many foolish things.

And many a wily way he found

For lawyers to get fat in,

And common sense, and English sound,

He smothered in dog-latin.

And simple ways made strange to see,

As clients, to their loss tell;

And many things that law may be,

Altho' they be not Gos-pel.

But since (see Job) we are but worms,

Our destiny we fill,

No doubt, in being gobbled up

By some long lawyer's bill.

28 Hare Hunting ends. "Nemo est hæres viventis."—Blackstone.

FEBRUARY.—Frost Fair.

FROST FAIR:
A LAMENT. BY TOM TUG.

Vell, blow me tight, but here's a go! I can't hardly believe my eyes,

It's a rig'lar Bartlemy Fair afloat, vith its stalls, and peep-shows, and t'ys,

And vonderful lambs vithout niver a head, and vonderfuller pigs with three;

And ships a svimmin' about in the air, instead of on the water, vere they orts to be;

And chaps a selling peppermint to keep the cold out, vich is jest the vorst thing under the sun;

And people a having their names printed on cards, vot can't read 'em ven they're done;

And lads and lasses a dancing and singing, and up to all manner o' queer raps;

And fat sheep a roasting whole, but not a bit for us poor amphibilous chaps;

And fellers a playing at nine pins on the ice, vot can't stand on their own two;

And ticket porters a stopping to see Punch, instead of going on their arrans, as they orts to do;

And firemen a cutting about here and there, as big and grand as any lord or squire.

Vith their red coats and badges—I s'pose they're afeard o' someb'dy's setting the Thames afire—

And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a Boothia Felix quite,

Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll let you git a sight—

And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld to do all day

But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't sitch spoons as to pay

To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the vater free;

Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good deal o' harm to we.

As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated and dead;

The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries cast-metal skates instead.

I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and proclaimed by the Lord Mayor;

I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint a legle fair.

It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his only bread?

I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land instead,

And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for where's the harm, ifegs!

Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little bisness in arms and legs?

As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again:

I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in vane!

Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and no mistake,

Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays brings another in its wake).

I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I vill say, the ruin of us is

Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering, unnattaral-looking water-buses.

Unnattaral, I say—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a nasty, long, curly, black,

Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union Jack?

And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor old hearts a breaking,

Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid under-taking.

Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a wery great bore:

But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his fame may do) reaches from shore to shore.

I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else that's nice:

No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you can't the ribs of ice).

I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to skate,

But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his pate.

Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a trice.

I did think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he, "Von't you take a ice?"

"No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour as sour crout,

"Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like 'cold vithout.'"

But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and more drier:

And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire.

I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to knock up and burn;

And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn.

Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a church mouse;

So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man as hasn't got a sous?

Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere am I to go to find a drop o' vater un-froze?

Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a end to his woes

In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in, man and b'y,

Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come again to I).

Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little funny, so pretty and red:

I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself instead.

A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.