Volume 102 — HORACE IN LONDON.

Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me, Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me, Or passions that witch and defy us, Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious. Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it—an Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan, Befitting, whate'er be its label, You, my good host, and the guest at your table. Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age, Dare you presume to resist such a beverage? Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue, Never imagined its vintage could hurt you. Liquor like this from a bottle whose crust is whole, Liquor like this rubs the rust from the rusty soul; The faddist it mellows: the private Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at. Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis; Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is, Yes, Poverty, such a spell under, Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder. Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces, and Venus too, With all of that classical ilk, man— Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.

I am shrouded in impenetrable gloom-de-ay, For I feel I'm being driven to my doom-de-ay, By an aggravating ditty Which I don't consider witty; And they call the horrid thing, "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" Every 'bus-conductor, errand-boy, and groom-de-ay, City clerk, and cheeky crossing-sweep with broom-de-ay Makes my nervous system bristle As he tries to sing or whistle That atrocious and absurd "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" So I sit in the seclusion of my room-de-ay, And deny myself to all—no matter whom-de-ay— For I dread a creature coming Whose involuntary humming May assume the fatal form, "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" Oh, I fear that when the Summer roses bloom-de-ay, You will read upon a well-appointed tomb-de ay:— "Influenza never lick'd him, But he fell an easy victim To that universal scourge—'Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!'"