TO HENRIETTA,*

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS

WHEN little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my

belief,

They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as

beef,

With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,

And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle,

For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;

For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)

In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

* The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the artist.

What next?—to fill your head with French to match the

native girls,

In scraps of Galignani they'll screw up your little curls; And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,

And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring; That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;

Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,

But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to

munch,

With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are

doing,

You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so

polite,

No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right ! So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious

stew

Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer Tant mi-eux ! "

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,

Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."-ROGERS.

COME, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;

Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pinWhilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong-infant pleasures as weak-
But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note;
Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"

Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? Oh! I can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce "Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin-I see myself urchin indeed—

With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?—I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?
Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?

Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub,

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy-my tailor was nothing in fault,
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,-
But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt'
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke !

With a lanky right leg duly planted before;
Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke,
And extended my arms as
CC the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover-Oh! say, were you ever in love?
With a lady too cold-and your bosom too hot?
Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove,
Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, Did you walk up the aisle the genteelest of men? When I think of that beautiful vision anew,

Oh! I seem but the biffin of what I was then!

I am wither'd and worn by a premature care,
And wrinkles confess the decline of my days;
Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair,
And I'm seeking to hide it-by writing for bays!

A TRUE STORY

Of all our pains, since man was curst,
I mean of body, not the mental,
To name the worst, among the worst,
The dental sure is transcendental;
Some bit of masticating bone,

That ought to help to clear a shelf,
But lets its proper work alone,
And only seems to gnaw itself;
In fact, of any grave attack
On victual there is little danger,
"Tis so like coming to the rack,
As well as going to the manger.

Old Hunks-it seemed a fit retort
Of justice on his grinding ways—
Possessed a grinder of the sort,
That troubled all his latter days.
The best of friends fall out, and so
His teeth had done some years ago,
Save some old stumps with ragged root,
And they took turn about to shoot;
If he drank any chilly liquor,
They made it quite a point to throb;
But if he warmed it on the hob,

Why then they only twitched the quicker.

One tooth-I wonder such a tooth

Had never killed him in his youth—
One tooth he had with many fangs,
That shot at once as many pangs,