III.

He stared and stammered-stamped and sworeYou would have thought he'd kill your daughter'Twas sound and fury-nothing more—

Except of English words a slaughter.
At last I heard the dolt exclaim,
"I know your heart's in secret chiming,
The praise of one whose wealth is fame,
A pale-faced Poet, proud of rhyming."

IV.

"Take that!" I cried, and boxed his ear;
He paused, and scowled in sullen frenzy ;
"Your mother, Miss," said he, “shall hear
Of this, and of your dear Mackenzie !"
And then he bolted from the room,
And banged the door as if he'd break it;
But what care I for all his fume?
Let one who loves his money take it.

V.

You know, Mamma, my heart's my own,
And that sweet bard the old brute mentioned
Is but a friend. His worth is known.
No other man, though bribed or pensioned,
Though decked with ribbands, gems, or gold,
Could ever wake in me the feeling

With which I silently behold

His kindled eye his soul revealing.

VI.

I do not love him-but 'tis sweet

To hear divine words breathed divinely,

And Oh! it is a heavenly treat

To see his face light up so finely!

What thought is in his forehead high !
What genius in his glances glowing!
And really when I hear him sigh,

I feel as if my life were going!

VII.

I do not love him, but I own

I like his tender verses dearly,
And somehow when I'm all alone
I feel his absence most severely.
Perhaps, indeed, one day, who knows,
But in some silent walk and shady,
He may breathe forth a lover's vows,
And I become a Poet's lady!

VIII.

I wish, Mamma, you would not quiz,
You vex me with your wicked smiling;
You think I'm smitten with his phiz,
And that his Muse is too beguiling?
Well, have it all your own way, then,
And, if it will afford you pleasure,
I'll own he is the best of men,

And that his heart would be a treasure.

IX.

"Behold the gentle minstrel comes!

You love each other, and you show it,"

66

(Exclaims Mamma,) so no more hums;

Charles, take her!-Mary, here's your Poet!Exchange your vows and laugh at sorrow,

Indulge in love's delicious frenzy,

And Mary shall be styled to-morrow

The pretty Mrs. Charles Mackenzie."

STANZAS.

ON A LATE ATTEMPT TO SHOOT THE QUEEN.

THE Queen's luckless soldier for twelve-pence a day,

As a butt for a bullet must stand,—

But he's not of the same flesh and blood you will
As the lady that rules o'er the land.

say

But the fair one herself, though she sits on a throne,

Is exposed to an enemy's lead;

Each pot-boy that sports an old gun of his own

Can take a pot-shot at her head.

Yet where's the great difference 'twixt Soldier and Queen?

The difference is all in the pay;

His is less than two guineas a month it is seen,

And her's is a thousand a day!

That the last's a good salary all must confess,

And yet I suspect there are many

Men, matrons, boys, maidens, who would not take less
To stand the pot-shots of a zany.

And really the fair living target displays

A courage that charms the beholder:

John Bull must not grumble at what he now pays

For he'll ne'er get a better or bolder.

Calcutta, July 18, 1842.

A BIT OF DOGGREL.

ON MEETING SOME LADIES ON THE SIDE OF A MOUNTAIN IN PENANG AT A LATE HOUR ON A STORMY EVENING.

A PALE and feeble invalid

Reduced to life's extremest need,

The red blood stagnant in his veins,
Passed from Bengala's sultry plains,
And sought on lofty Bel Retiro*

The vigor of a mountain hero.

The search was vain-the chance seemed lost,
Heat had performed the effect of frost-
The stream that from the heart once leapt,
Within its purple channels slept;

'Twas feared that health and cheerful spirit
No more that mortal might inherit.

He who once fainted in the sun

Now shivered in the shade,he won

But change of ill from change of scene,
Increased by sadness and chagrin.

His neighbour (a just British Cadi,)

In concert with his courteous lady,

Took pity on the lonely man,

And said "Pray cheer up if you can,

And, just as often as you're able,

Be present at our social table."

The hill in Penang on which the Government House is situated.

Sick as he was the poor wretch smiled,
And felt his inmost heart beguiled;
Though bleak the wind, and o'er the head
Of the old hill a dim fog spread,
And night's thick curtain like a pall
Began upon the scene to fall,

He threw his cloak upon his shoulder,
And strove to feel less chilled, and bolder;
But his teeth chattered, and his mind
Misgave him, as through fog and wind
He toiled his way, and missed it too,
And wondered what on earth to do.

Suddenly flashed upon his sight
What seemed a vision of the night,
A troop of spirits of the air-
Trembled his limbs-up-rose his hair!
He paused-they neared him—and at once
The mystery cleared-the sickly dunce
Mistook familiar forms and bright
For awful ghosts that haunt the night,
Though never lovelier shapes were seen
In sunlight on a summer green.

Calcutta, July 18, 1842.