Ah Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,

By her who has wandered, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish-for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre-" for there is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the Vérys!*
Long, long have I wished, as a votary true,

O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And, to-day-as my stomach is not in good cue
For the flesh of the Vérys-I'll visit their bones!"
He insists upon my going with him-how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unsealed in my drawer, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--good-bye.
B. F.

Four o'clock.

Oh Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruined for ever-
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never!
To think of the wretch--what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure-I shall die, I shall die-
My brain's in a fever-my pulses beat quick-
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!
Oh, what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel-I scarce can commit it to paper-
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper !!
'Tis true as I live-I had coaxed brother Bob so
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so)
For some little gift on my birth-day-September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That Bob to a shop kindly ordered the coach,

(Ah, little I thought who the shopman would prove)
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,

Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love,-
(The most beautiful things-two Napoleons the price-
And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop,
But-ye Gods, what a phantom !-I thought I should drop-
There he stood, my dear Dolly-no room for a doubt-
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand !

It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on the column at the head of the tomb concludes with the following words-"Toute sa vie fut consacrée aux arts utiles."

Oh-Papa, all along, knew the secret, 'tis clear-
'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,

And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipped-vile, treacherous thing-
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around-the wretch smiled, I believe,
But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive-

I fell back on Bob-my whole heart seemed to wither-
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that Bob, as I caught him,

With cruel facetiousness said "curse the Kiddy!
A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
But now I find out he's a Counter one, Biddy!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Malone!

What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!

What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the mcn! It will spread through the country-and never, oh, never Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell I shall do something desperate, I fear--
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my Doll will not grudge
To her poor-broken-hearted-young friend

BIDDY FUDCE.

Nota bene-I'm sure you will hear, with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see Brunet to-night.
A laugh will revive me-and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box!

DEAR LORD BYRON,-Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedica tion of it with pleasure, and believe that I am, my dear Lord ver faithfully yours, T. B.

PREFACE.

THOUGH it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honour of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscel lany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, &c. &c.-but, as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transac tions of the Poco-curante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject; and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work, and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state, for the information of those critics, who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in three words "Non curat Hippoclides," (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco-curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I'VE had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess-

As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess-
It seems to me extremely awful.
Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,

*

A dome of frost-work, on the plan
Of that once built by Empress Anne,*
Which shone by moonlight-as the tale is—
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnished all

And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
Given by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,

Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,

At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.

The thought was happy-and designed
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprisoned there,
Be checked and chilled, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.

And all were pleased, and cold, and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination-

Admired the superstructure greatly,

Nor gave one thought to the foundation.

"It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when laminated had a surprising effect."-Pinkerton.

Much too the Czar himself exulted,

To all Plebeian fears a stranger,

For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,
Had pledged her word there was no danger.
So, on he capered, fearless quite,

Thinking himself extremely clever,
And waltzed away with all his might,

As if the Frost would last for ever. Just fancy how a bard like me,

Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled, To see that goodly company,

At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded-
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
Were seized with an ill-omened dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,
Their Holinesses took to slipping.
The Czar, half through a Polonaise,

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; And Prussia, though to slippery ways

So used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—
And now, to an Italian air,

This precious brace would, hand in hand, go; Now-while old Louis, from his chair, Intreated them his toes to spare

Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to, like mad-

Never were Kings (though small the expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies)

So out of all their princely senses.

But, ah, that dance-that Spanish dance-
Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flamed,
Astonishing old Father Frost,

Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed,

"A thaw, by Jove-we're lost, we're lost!

Run, France-a second Waterloo

Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!”

Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?—
Instantly all was in a flow,

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations-
Those Royal Arms, that looked so nice,