I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;― Though a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),

I have, ev'ry year since, been outgrowing my clothes;

Till, at last, such a corpulent giant I stand,

That, if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, It would take ev'ry morsel of scrip in the land

But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. Hence, they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,

To cover me nothing but rags will supply; And the doctors declare that, in due course of nature,

About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of int'rest, most painful, to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the palace I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in my thrall.

Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come, tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,

Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, O'er his shoulders with large cipher eye-balls I look, And down drops the pen from his paralyz'd paw! When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, And expects through another to caper and prank it,

You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.

When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, Lo," Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall, And the cup falls to earth and—the gout to his

toe!

But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's

acres,

And, knowing who made me the thing that I am, Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.

Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell, if thou knows't, who I may be.

One of the shows of London.

2 More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill; for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

Some, that had sigh'd their last amen

From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by "the best of men,"

Who had prov'd—no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,

Once shining fair, now soak'd and black"No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried), "For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head,

Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons;
And lo! a devil right downward sped,
Bringing, within his claws so red,

Two statesmen's characters, found, he said,
Last night, on the floor of the House of Com-

mons;

The which, with black official grin,
He now to the Chief Imp handed in ;---
Both these articles much the worse

For their journey down, as you may suppose; But one so devilish rank-"Odds curse!"

Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.

"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well
"From whom these two stray matters fell;".
Then, casting away, with loathful shrug,
The' uncleaner waif (as he would a drug
The' Invisible's own dark hand had mix'd),
His gaze on the other firm he fix'd,

And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye,
To be moral, because of the young imps by,
"What a pity!" he cried-" so fresh its gloss,
"So long preserv'd-'tis a public loss!
"This comes of a man, the careless block head,
"Keeping his character in his pocket;
"And there without considering whether
"There's room for that and his gains together-
"Cramming, and cramming, and cramming away,
"Till-out slips character some fine day!

But, lo, a fresh puzzlement starts up to viewNew toil for the Sub.-for the Lord new expense: 'Tis discover'd that mending his grammar wo'n't do, As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

2 Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

IH-k-n.

At last-even this is achieved by his aid;

Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and—the story; Drums beat-the new Grand March of Intellect's

play'd

66

66

Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, Wrapp'd in his own dead rhymes-fit winding

sheet

drew

"Così quel fiato gli spiriti mali

Di qua, di là, di giù, di su gli mena." Inferno, canto 5.

I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds me-blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as-though they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquir'd
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tir'd
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
"We once were authors"-thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said —
"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
"Who, early smit with love of praise and-pewter, 1
"On C-lb-n's 2 shelves first saw the light of day,
"In 's puffs exhal'd our lives away-
"Like summer windmills, doom'd to dusty peace,
"When the brisk gales, that lent them motion cease.
"Ah, little knew we then what ills await

66

Know, then-a waiter once at Brooks's Club, "A waiter still I might have long remain'd, "And long the club-room's jokes and glasses

66

drain'd;

But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December, "I wrote a book ", and Colburn dubb'd me Member'

"Member of Brooks's!'-oh Promethean puff, "To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff! "With crums of gossip, caught from dining wits, "And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like halfchew'd bits,

"To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;"With such ingredients, serv'd up oft before, "But with fresh fudge and fiction garnish'd o'er, I manag'd, for some weeks, to dose the town, "Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down;

66

4 Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H.

3 Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside" regnat Rosa"-over its pages.

History of the Clubs of London," announced as by “a Member of Brooks's."