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SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS.
BY LORD BYRON.
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant; clear-but, oh how cold!
TO THE HONOURABLE
Son of the faithless melancholy rat!
"THE Leader's Lament," which we lay before our readers, in this number, is a happy imitation of the lines, which have within this day or two appeared, entitled "Fare thee well," and attributed to the pen of Lord BYRON; and we think we may venture to say, that though our imitation does not crawl servilely on all fours, it possesses almost as much tenderness and pathos as the original:*
THE LEADER'S LAMENT.
BY THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE PONSONBY.
Still for Easter fare ye well-
'Gainst the Serjeant none rebel.
* I have not thought it necessary to reprint this original, for several reasons. -E.
On those seats no longer snore ye,
Would, before the Session's over,
Then at last they might discover
"Tis not well to snouch* me so.
do not choose to cheer me,
my adherents are,
Though I may grow rather prozy,
Why must you, the first, get dozy?
Why, the first, go home to bed?
* Mr. Ponsonby on some occasion had used the word snouch, with what meaning is not clear.-E.
Yet-oh yet-yourselves deceive not-
Still those ministerial faces
Grin at us- -still ours look blueAnd
our curse!-they keep their places Still, whate'er we say or do.
Then when "Ay," they loudly hollow,
And are all prepared to follow
When I to the lobby go?—
my rival BROUGHAM should press ye,
ye sorely thus distress me,
Poor old Snouch thus turn away?