metrical mirth ABOUT JHamageatjU iHisSiSeiS, etc* THE MOTHER'S ADVICE TO HER DAUGHTER. My girl, you must not fall in love With virtue or with wit ; Unless there’s rank, or money too. To gild the pill a bit. Wit’s but a frothy thing at best. And virtue stale becomes; Stick to the solid puddings Jane, And marry for the plums I Nor let good looks beguile your heart. To throw itself away; What, after all's, a handsome face? 'Twill wrinkle up some day. Gray hairs will show, eyes will grow dull. When man’s cold winter comes ; — Stick to the solid puddingy Jane, And marry for the plums 1 Don't ever let me hear you say A vrord of mutual flame;" That's not the way to win the trick, In matrimony's game. Besides, such flame, though hot at first Soon dim and quench'd becomes Stick to the solid puddings Jane, And marry for the plumsl Love's very well for wanton bards. Your Ovids, Moores, to sing. But for a girl that's well brought up, ^Tis an indecent thing. I never loved your father, child. Just ask him; here he comes;— Stick to the solid puddings Jane, And marry for the plumsl I know a youthful face has charms, For girls just fresh from school; But oh! I hope no child of mine Will be so great a fool! Young men are often wild and gay. Old age discreet becomes; — Stick to the solid puddings Jane, And marry for i\\Q plums! 3 ’Tis very well for vulgar folks. To talk of hearts and darts ; But girls like youy should be above Such sentimental parts. A knock 1 it is that lord so rich— Though he has toothless gums ; — Stick to the solid puddings Jane, And marry for i\\e plums! Just move that ringlet, love, and as You sit, take care to show That pretty foot, blush — if you can— That's it! you're perfect so! I'll leave you to receive the peer— Here old Lord Liquorish comes Stick to the solid pudding , Jane, And marry for the plums! THE RING AND THE BROOCH; OR, THE LADY’S CHOICE. A spinster's ballad. I »iET him at the County Ball$ I'd heard of him before. That he had ev'ry year, at least, Three thousand pounds and more. I cannot say I like him much ; But what am I to do? My mother says — ^‘‘That Mr. Smith Is just the match for you!” I own, if I could make my choice, I'd greatly sooner wed Young William Jones, although he's poor, And has to earn his bread. He says and writes such pretty things— But what am I to do? My mother says — “ That Mr. Smith Is just the match for you 1" I know that money's scarce at home— Oh, gold! thou root of ills! — ^ Papa declares he dreads the day When he’s to ‘"meet” his hills! 5 I*m sure I should not dread to meet My Bill — what can I do?— My mother cries— That Mr. Smith Is just the match for you!*' There’s something odd about that Smith, Though what^ I cannot say ; And yet a sweet pearl ring to me He sent on New-year’s-day. While William gave a plain gold brooch, Poor, like himself, but true; My mother cries — ^‘‘That Mr. Smith Is just the match for you!” Smith wears a glossy olive coat. With buttons richly chased; But William’s blue and worn eurtout Is much more to my taste. Smith looks a ** snob,” while William is A gentleman, you view; But then my mother says— ^‘T hat Smith Is just the match for you!” Both ask my hand : which shall I take For “ better and for worse V* If vulgar Wealth’s a horrid thing. Still Poverty’s a curse. Smith versus Jones — confound the men— I don't know what to do; What say2/OM, mother? — *‘Stick to Smith, He's just the match for you!" Well, wait a minute: I would act Without the least reproach; Shall I return the pretty ringt Or send back William's brooch? The ring, you say, is worth the most?— Dear mother, that is true! I'll send the brooch back ; Smith's the man, I quite agree with you! MY MOTHER! A SINGLE lady's LAMENT. Who brought me forth one happy day, And to my flatter’d sire did say, ^‘My dear, she's just your own portraitV* My Mother! Who, though a Christian parent styled. Ne’er suckled me, her own dear child, For fear her figure should be spoil’d? — My Mother! Who from my earliest years took care To let me know that I was fair; And dress’d me smart, and curl’d my hair?— My Mother ! Who, when I grew to riper age. And turn'd the leaf of girlhood's page. Foretold my charms would be ‘^the rage?”— My Mother! Who, with instruction wisely kind. Train'd up my young, inquiring mind. To lay deep snares for all wan-kind?— My Mother ! k ‘'- i V ' 8 Who bade me lay aside and shun The heart's best instincts, every one, Because the heart is — maumis-tonl-^ My Mother! AVho vow’d I must, to be the pet Of fashion’s men, and fashion’s set, Become, like her, a cold coquette?— My Mother! Who said — ^‘Be this your future plan, ^‘My girl, make conquests when you can; Don’t pray to God, but prey on — man !"— My Mother ! Who had me taught to waltz with grace, And dance, without a blushing face. The polka’s meretricious pace ? — My Mother ! Who brought me “out” at seventeen, When I became the worshipp’d queen Of all the fools in fashion's scene?— My Mother! Who caution’d me, all things above. To never think or dream of love ; To be the hawky and not the dove ! — My Mother! l:,-- - i - ‘ y$d -*:' : i,. Jttj? • ■— - ^>.'..*:i <;>i?tV ;vif 9 Who always watch’d in great affright, For fear I should be caught some night By handsome face and pockets light? — My Mother! Who bids me worthy men refuse, That I may marry if I choose ; “Because,” she says, she’s “ higher views?”— My Mother ! Who’s shown me off five seasons now, Till ev’ry soul my face must know. And dandies whisper, “’Tis no go!” — My Mother! Who does not mark my cheek grow pale. My health give way, my spirits fail. Because I feel I’m getting “ stale ?” — My Mother! Who’ll keep me fiddle-faddling on. Till bloom and beauty both are gone From face and form, and then — Fm done ! My Mother! “HE’S SUCH A GOOD YOUNG MAN!” A BALLAD. He does not talk of love to me; He does not praise my charms; My flashing eye, my rosy lip, The contour of my arms. But then, he’s money in the stocks— ril catch him if I can ; Besides, there is another thing— He's such a — good young man! His features are not very fine; His figure has no grace: His nails are always black, and there Are pimples on his face: But then, his ‘^principles” are pure; I'll catch him if I can : What’s pimpled face to moral mind? He’s such a — good young man I His conversation boasts no wit; No brilliant thoughts adorn The topics which he talks about; Indeed, he makes me yawn. But all is moral that he says; ril catch him if I can: Your wits are often profligates. But Ae’s a — good young man 1 11 He does not dress extremely well, But what of that? — one knows Fine feathers hide the foulest birds. And scamps are often beaux. I know he has intrinsic worth; I’ll catch him if I can : His heart's ‘‘the thing," tho’ not his coat He’s such K—good young man ! You say he wears “false collars;** well, What's that to me or you ? His collars may be false y but oh! His souly I’m sure, is true. What though his haf% a gossamer! ril catch him if I can ; And buy silk bonnets with his cash— He's such a — good young man I A great thing 'tis, in married life. To know your bliss doth stand On Virtue’s rock based firmly, not On Passion's shifting sand! And such with him would be my lot; I'll catch him if I can: For Jane (my sisterys after him— He's such a — good young man 1 THE « GENIUS” THE ADMIRING LAY OF A SPINSTER. Oh! have yoa heard my ‘‘Genius” talk? He’s really quite sublime ; There never was such prose as his, There never was such rhyme. He calls my eyes two stars at night; Two brilliant suns by day — He is a “ Genius,” sure enough 1 How then can 1 say “Nay?” He says the world’s grown old, and dull, And that it should, forsooth. Be in “Medea’s cauldron” placed. And boil’d again to youth. I don’t know what he means; it is Some fine thought, I dare say — For Tom’s a “Genius,” sure enough! How then can I say “Nay?” He vows his soul on “soaring wings” Is longing to be off; I hope he’s not about to die— I never hear him cough. He plays his part at dinner well. And at the luncheon tray — He is a “ Genius,'^ sure enough ! How then can I say **Nay?” He’s so superior in his thoughts ! He looks with lofty scorn On all the great ones of the earth/^ The rich and nobly born. He says the Poet is ‘‘divine,*’ All other men but clay — He is a “Genius,” sure enough! How then can I say “Nay?” All down his hack his long hair falls. Which, though it lends him grace. Doth to his coat much grease impart— He’s reddish in the face; A black moustache, a pointed beard, White kids, an air distrait — He is a “Genius,” sure enough! And oh! I won't say “Nay!” THE «OLD BACHELOR.^’ A MATRIMONIAL MELODY. He’s old, and stricken well in years, The bachelor I seek ; The crow’s-foot's underneath his eye, The wrinkle's on his cheek. He's quite a martyr to the gout— I care not though he be ; I’ll swaddle up his gouty toes. If he will marry me. They say he's fretful in his moods, And grumbles all day long; And that he raps out awful oaths When anything goes wrong. I should not care for all his oaths. Though awful they might be, If at tbe altar he would “ swear"— To love and cherish me I I’ve always heard, and know it is The Spinster’s wisest plan. In matrimony, to look at The marriage^ not the man. My aged swain has gems and gold, Decrepid though he be ; His yellow guineas won’t turn gray^ When he has married me! 15 Beside the altar should we stand. Some folks perhaps might say, ‘‘There’s January, poor old food, Bound tight to blooming May!”— But let them talk — more girls than one Will at my wedding be. Who fain would catch that ‘poor old fool,* Were he not caught by me! I do not think he can last long. He is so full of ills; He’s shaky on his legs, and trusts In potions and in pills. Perhaps upon the bridal night I shall a widow he, And change my orange flowers for weeds ; Oh ! happiness to me 1 Yes, ril accept the dear old soul. Gout, groggy legs, bald head; I’d sooner wed a patriarch Than be through life wTi-wed. I’ve heard it said, a “green old age” Must very pleasant be ; And he'W be green enough, God knows ! If he should marry me ! THE SPINSTER'S TRIUMPH. A BALLAD OF HYMEN. I STOOD before the bridal shrine ; * My friends were pressing round; A modest blush was on my cheek, My eyes were on the ground. But oh! I felt a throb of pride, Which made my heart beat fast ; — The orange flowers were on my brow. I'd caught the flat at last! And 'mid the crowd of seeming friends. Who all appear'd to smile, I knew more hearts than one were full Of envious rage, the while 1 I'd mark’d two rivals in the throng, Whose charms I had surpass’d ; — The orange flowers were on my brow, I’d caught the flat at lastl It was not love that sent the blush Into my cheek, so red: He was not chosen by my hearty But only by my head. I loved another — he was poor, So him away I cast; — The orange flowers were on my brow, I’d caught the flat at last ! They told me 'twas a glorious match,'' And mine a happy fate : They told me he had boundless wealth, And this and that estate. About his moral treasures not One word had ever pass’d ; — The orange flowers were on my brow. I’d caught the flat at last! My father gazed at me with pride, My mother with delight; And yet unto a stranger's arms They gave me up that night; They'd done their task, they'd ‘*got me off Their hands"— care was past — The orange flowers were on my brow, I'd caught the flat at last! 'Twas strange 'twas very strange, the cause I'm sure I cannot guess, I thought of him that's far away. Just as I murmur'd *‘Yes." a It turn’d me faint — I felt my heart Throb still more wild and fast;— The orange flowers were on my brow, I’d caught the flat at last! Oh, many a long and tedious week I'd flirted, danced, and sung, The fiend Ennui within my heart, But mij th upon my tongue ; And many a snare for man I’d set, And many a bait had cast; — The orange flowers were on my brow, I’d caught the flat at last! TOTHAM ; PEINTBD AT C* CLARK’S PRIYATE PRESS. W| (Hill Ho L> ^