BALLAD:
The Lay of the Blighted Potato.
Air—"I had a Flower within my Garden growing."
I saw a murphy in a garden growing;
I boldly prigged it—nobody was there;—
Rich in all charms familiar to the knowing;
Of size unrivalled, and of kidney rare.
At ev'ning hour I put it in my cellar,
Where never murphy had been put before:
I thought myself a very downy fellow;
I smiled upon it, and I shut the door.
Next day I took the murphy out to peel it,
Casting the peeling carelessly away;
When—horrid fact! I shudder to reveal it!—
I found it blighted—hastening to decay.
Vainly I strove the wholesome parts to cherish;
But nought remained of what is now so dear:—
Only with life shall the remembrance perish,
How bad potatoes have turned out this year!
THE RIVER.
BY COVENTRY PATMORE.
It is a venerable pier,
Though anything but sound;
So old, the Rainbow shatters it,
To Hungerford when bound;
And over all the mud expanse
A river runneth round.
Upon a rise, where pewter pots
And rows of benches tall
Look pleasantly, the "Swan" beneath,
Where concert singers squall,
Resteth, in quiet dignity,
A shrimp and winkle stall.
Around it, heads, and tails, and ends,
Are scattered left and right;
Above, its long Suspension Bridge,
For railways far too slight:
And faces through its railings gleam,
A taking of a sight.
Beyond the river, bounding all,
A crowd of chimneys stand,
The Shot-concern their central point,
As sooty as a band
Of sweeps around their May-day Jack,
Extended hand in hand.
The verdant Greenwich boat is come,
The touter's lungs are strong;
The cornet bloweth lustily,
The "gents" indulge in song;
And running down, the river flows
Like black pea-soup along.
NEW LINES OF RAILWAY,
IN CONTEMPLATION FOR 1846.
Capel Court and Queen's Bench Extension, with a branch to Whitecross Street.
Somerset House and Andover Direct Junction.
Central African.
Herne Bay and Hanwell.
Liverpool and New York Suspension.
Golden Square and Michaelmas Day Junction.
ARIES—Ram-pant jollities.
THE ZODIAC—MARCH.
ARIES.—THE RAM (IN SMITHFIELD).
Sonnet to the Ram Inn.
Shrine of the sainted Bartlemy! whose fête
Was kept up in thy sanctum all the night,
When for the booths the hours got too late,
And stern policemen snuffed out every light
From hoop of dips, or lamp balloon so bright,
Leaving nought else to snuff but morning air;
Fair temple! once a scene too gay to last,
In every sense the focus of the fair!—
But now thy glories all away have past!
No more thy fiddlers country dances play
(Polkas, thank goodness, were not known); no more
Thy earnest votaries danced in wild array—
Until they sent their feet right through the floor;—
No—all have gone! the blight has seized thy hops!
Unwieldy brutes block up thy very door!
Sheep, laden with long loins of mutton-chops,
And living steaks and sirloins by the score,
Hereafter sent to "Dick's," the "Cheshire Cheese,"
The "Rainbow," and a hundred taverns more,
Where waiters, frantic, ceaselessly do roar,
"Cook, single mutton,"—"Small steak, underdone!"
Or, "Chops to follow, with eschalot for one!"—
Oh, Ram! my pen can't paint such scenes as these,
The pens of Smithfield only should attest thy fun.