Volume 101 — IGNORANT BLISS.

At noon through the open window Comes the scent of the new-mown hay. I look out. In the meadow yonder Are the little lambs at play. They are all extremely foolish, Yet I haven't the heart to hint That over the boundary wall there grows A beautiful bed of mint. For a little lamb Will run to its mam. And will say "O! dam," At a hint, however well intentioned, When the awful name of mint is mentioned. At the close of day the burglar comes For to ply his gentle trade. I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and Grow timid and quite afraid. I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know That my neighbours of titled rank Went abroad on a sudden last night and left Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank. For a burglar bold Grows harsh and cold When he finds he's sold, And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing. I'm a poet—you may not know it, But I am and hard up for "tin," So I've written these clever verses And I hope they'll get put in. Yet Life is an awful lottery With a gruesome lot of blanks, And I wish the Editor hadn't slips That are printed "Declined with Thanks." For it's rather hard On a starving bard When his last trump card Is played, and he wishes himself bisected When his Muse's lays come back—rejected!