Volume 102 — ON MY LADY'S POODLE.

I wonder what on earth it is That makes me think my lady's poodle (Her minion smug of solemn phiz,) The pink and pattern of a noodle: Its eyes are deep; their look, serene; Its lips are sensitive and smiling; But oh! the gross effect, I ween, Is, passing measure, dull and riling. It is not that its locks are crisp; Your humble servant's hair is crisper, It is not that its accents lisp; I, too, affect a stammered whisper: Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears And struts with particoloured bib on; I like these macaronic airs; I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon. Nor can it be—of this I'm sure— Because she pampers all its wishes And tempts her peevish epicure With dainty meats in dainty dishes. To tell the truth, while I'm her guest, My little wants and whims she studies; If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest No jealous tincture in my blood is. I wonder, wonder, at a loss To justify such wayward snarling— It makes her very, very cross My poor opinion of her darling; The cause (should pride the cause withhold, She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,) The cause is this—she calls, I'm told, The little brute my "Living image!"