THE FANCY BALL.

IN A LETTER TO MY COUSIN.

THE fancy ball?-of course, dear coz,
I could not help being there,
Though I mingled in all the gaieties, coz,
With a heart that had many a care;
But I hid them beneath my mantle, coz,
For I went as a Spanish don,

And I looked as proud as a bridegroom, coz,
When his marriage dress is on.

And in sooth the sight was a pleasant sight,
For those who love such things,

And who peep not under the rosy wreath
Which mirth o'er her votaries flings;

"Tis better to catch the spirit, coz,

Of the passing hour as it flies,
Than walk by yourself to a corner, coz,
And begin to philosophise.

I did all I could to be pleased, dear coz,
But I own that I searched in vain

For a face whose features might bring me back
The light of thy face again;

Oh! beauty is often talked of, coz,

But very rarely seen

Beauty that looks like a seraph, coz,

And moves like a starry queen.

And the men were worse than the women, coz,
They were all so pompous and dull;

And some looked as awkward, as if they had spent
Their lives in the Isle of Mull;

And each seem'd painfully conscious, coz,

That he wore a fancy dress,

Which he knew had cost him twenty pounds,

As nearly as he could guess.

The English are too grave a people, coz,

To enjoy a fancy ball,

They lack the gladdening sun that shines

On the Tuscan Carnival;

Their misty climate affects their blood,
And acts like a witch's spell,

They cannot fling their reserve aside,
And sing " Vive la bagatelle !"

Oh! 'twas only a shadow dim and faint,
Of what it might have been,

Had a livelier spirit ruled o'er the hour,

And danced through the glittering scene; Even I could have felt the influence, coz, Of souls more warm and free

Souls which, like thine, could have left the earth, And gone up to the sky with me.

But the souls lay some in a necklace, coz,
And some in the style of hair;

And some in the peak of a stomacher,

And some-heaven best knows where ;-
From a feather or two, peep'd the souls of a few,
From a turban that of others;

And some had never got souls at all
From their fathers or their mothers.

Doubtless there were exceptions, coz,

If one could have found them out;
And 'tis always a thankless task at best
To grumble, and sneer, and pout;
Amongst so many smiles, dear coz,
What had my sighs to do?

Where every one was looking sweet,
Why the deuce should I look blue?

Then live the Fancy Ball, dear coz,
With its terribly sour champaigne ;
And if there be another next year,

May we all be at it again!

And may none of the ladies who glitter'd there

Be angry at what I've said,

For, rather than anger a fair ladye,

I'd let her chop off my head.

THE TALL GENTLEMAN'S APOLOGY.

UPBRAID me not;-I never swore eternal love to thee,
For thou art only five feet high, and I am six feet three ;
I wonder, dear, how you supposed that I could look so low,
There's many a one can tie a knot, who cannot fix a beau.

Besides you must confess, my love, the bargain scarcely fair, For never could we make a match, altho' we made a pair; Marriage, I know, makes one of two; but here's the horrid bore,

My friends declare, if you are one, that I at least am four.

"Tis true the moralists have said, that Love has got no eyes, But why should all my sighs be heaved for one who has no

size?

And on our wedding-day I'm sure I'd leave you in the lurch, For you never saw a steeple, dear, in the inside of a church.

"Tis usual for a wife to take her husband by the arm,
But pray excuse me should I hint a sort of fond alarm,
That when I offered you my arm, that happiness to beg,
Your highest effort, dear, would be to take me by the leg.

I do admit I wear a glass, because my sight's not good,
But were I always quizzing you, it might be counted rude :
And tho' I use a concave lens,-by all the gods! I hope
My wife will ne'er look up to me through a Herschel's tele-

Scope.

Then fare thee well, my gentle one! I ask no parting kiss,

I must not break my back to gain so exquisite a bliss ;

Nor will I weep lest I should hurt so delicate a flower,—
The tears that fall from such a height, would be a thunder-

shower.

Farewell! and pray don't drown yourself in a bason or a tub,
For that would be a sore disgrace to all the Six-Feet Club;
But if you ever love again, love on a smaller plan,
For why extend to six feet three, a life that's but a span!

A POINT FOR THE CRITICS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ARMAND GOUFFE'.

"WRITE just as you speak," say modern critics,
That desperate band of merciless ascetics :
O ye! who fix the laws of composition,
Have ye no pity for my sad condition?

Tell me, in God's name, how should I compose,
For, gentle critics, I speak thro' my nose!