The motley, medley coach provide, Or, like Joe Frankenstein, compile Oh, who like thee could ever drink, Or eat, swill, swallow, bolt, and choke; Though Joseph junior acts not ill, Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe! We met with mirth-we part in pain! DREAMS. Anonymous. I DREAMT that at even a white mist arose I thought that my love was a sweet wild rose, And sweetly I beaded her pale red charms With many a diamond speck; And softly I bent up my wat'ry arms, And hung round her beautiful neck. O me! what a heavenly birth: Till the moon came bright, Then sank at her feet down again in the earth. I dreamt that my love was a sweet wild pea, I breath'd her breath, and I kist her lip, And she was as chaste as snow! O me! what a beautiful task! For there I lay Till eve grew grey, While she in the sun's bright gleam did bask. Again-I was where the pale moon did line I thought that my love was a wild woodbine, "Welcome," said I," where the bramble weaves "Around us a guard of thorns;" And sweetly I tangled myself in her leaves, And fann'd her red streak'd horns ; By the music of which we led A gay dance about Till old night came out To rock us to sleep in his dusky bed. MACBETH TRAVESTIED. Rejected Addresses. Enter Macbeth, in a red night-cap. Page following with a torch. Go, boy, and thy good mistress tell As soon as she's heated my gruel. But ere you have ta'en off your clothes, My stars, in the air here's a knife! I'll catch at the handle, odds life, And then I shall not cut my thumb. I've got him!-no, at him again; Come, come, I'm not fond of these jokes: This must be some blade of the brain : I've one in my pocket, I know, My wife left on purpose behind her; I see them again! o'er thy middle Large drops of red blood now are spill'd; It leads to his chamber, I swear; I tremble and quake every joint; Give me blinkers to save me from starting; The knife that I thought that I saw, Was nought but my eye Betty Martin. Now o'er this terrestrial line, The other is sleepy and dead. I've lent him my slippers, so I Blow softly, ye murmuring gales, Ye feet rouse no echo in walking; For though a dead man tell no tales, Dead walls are much given to talking. This knife shall be in at the death,I'll stick him, then off safely get; Cries the world this could not be Macbeth, For he'd ne'er stick at any thing yet. Hark, hark, 'tis the signal, by goles, To call thee to heaven or hell. But rather prefer Pluto's ether, Only wait a few years till I die, "And we'll go to the devil together. COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE. ONE night the nymph, call'd Country Dance— Having been chas'd from London down "Here, here, at least," she cried, " though driven From London's gay and shining tracks Though, like a Peri cast from heaven, I've lost, for ever lost Almack's "Though not a London Miss alive, Would now for her acquaintance own me; And spinsters, e'en, of forty-five, Upon their honours ne'er have known me. "Here, here, at least, I triumph still, See nought but true blue Country-dancers. Moore. |