RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,' —That's too a stone one, this is made of iron— And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres—and back. And then, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar,—a Cheapside Buccaneer!'— But hold, my Muse!—for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

Not a sous had he got,—not a guinea or note, And he look'd confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning; We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning. All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshall cloak around him. 'The Doctor's as drunk as the d——,' we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Would 'consumedly ache' on the morrow. We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water. Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory.

Oh no! we'll never mention him; We won't, upon our word! 'Decorum' now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard. From Drury Lane we'll toddle to Our 'office' with regret, And if they ask us, 'Who's been dished?' We'll say that 'we forget!' We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,' And try his ancient strain; He'd better 'be a butterfly' Than write a farce again. 'Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender Canzonette; But if you ask us, 'What beside?' Why, really, 'we forget.' And, oh, there are so many now, Who write good come-dy,— There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake, And Poole, who wrote Paul Pry, Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone join To make a funny set, With some half-dozen jokers more, Whose names we quite forget. They tell us he has got, behind, A bran-new five-act play; They say that it is devilish droll, But heed not what they say; Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle on A night or two, but yet If 'tis no better than his farce, The pair you'll soon forget!