A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.

What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!

Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff!

Pile on more logs and let them roll,

And pass the humming wassail-bowl!

The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!

Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell!

Richard! say something rustic.

Lo!

The customary mistletoe,

Prehensile on the apple-bough,

Invites the usual kiss.

And now

Cathartic hellebore should be

A cure for imbecility.

Now holly-berries have begun

To blush for Women That Have Done.

The farmer sticks his stuffy goose!

Come, come, you grow a little loose;

That's Michaelmas; you must remember

That Michaelmas is in September!

Northward the swallow sweeps his wing.

No, no! the bird arrives in spring!

Such knowledge fits the country clown;

We've better things to note in town.

What's Nature's lore compared with women's?

For this enigma go to S-m-ns;

He is the ——

Yes, I am, I know,

The devil of a Romeo!

Hark! hark! the waits, the precious waits!

Their music beats at Heaven's gates.

What Bodley wight will sing a stave

To match their strumming? I would have

The manly bass of Hobbes's voice;

But Unwin's house is Hobbes's choice.

George! you've a baritone at need.

Alas! my famous Keynotes lead

To Discords.

I've a little thing

Of Resurrection. Shall I sing?

Please do; but à propos of what?

I cannot say, unless de bottes.