Part 4 — MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT. PUNCH.

Oh! take away my wig and gown, Their sight is mockery now to me. I pace my chambers up and down, Reiterating "Where is HE?"

Alas! wild echo, with a moan, Murmurs above my feeble head: In the wide world I am alone; Ha! ha! my only client's—dead!

In vain the robing-room I seek; The very waiters scarcely bow, Their looks contemptuously speak, "He's lost his only client now."

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore, Would hasten when his name I said, To hand in motions, comes no more, HE knows my only client's dead.

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, Open the pleadings of a suit: Ne'er shall the judges cut me short While moving them for a compute.

No more with a consenting brief Shall I politely bow my head; Where shall I run to hide my grief? Alas! my only client's dead.

Imagination's magic power Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be, The spot, the day, the very hour, When first I sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row I sat, and some one touched my head, He tendered ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead.

In vain I try to sing—I'm hoarse: In vain I try to play the flute, A phantom seems to flit across— It is the ghost of a compute.

I try to read,—but all in vain; My chamber listlessly I tread; Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain; Ho! ho! my only client's dead.

I think I hear a double knock: I did—alas! it is a dun. Tailor—avaunt! my sense you shock; He's dead! you know I had but one.

What's this they thrust into my hand? A bill returned!—ten pounds for bread! My butcher's got a large demand; I'm mad! my only client's dead.

LOVE ON THE OCEAN. PUNCH.

They met, 't was in a storm On the deck of a steamer; She spoke in language warm, Like a sentimental dreamer. He spoke—at least he tried; His position he altered; Then turned his face aside, And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.

She gazed upon the wave, Sublime she declared it; But no reply he gave— He could not have dared it. A breeze came from the south, Across the billows sweeping; His heart was in his mouth, And out he thought 't was leaping.

"O, then, Steward!" he cried With the deepest emotion; Then totter'd to the side, And leant o'er the ocean. The world may think him cold, But they'll pardon him with quickness, When the fact they shall be told, That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.

"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?" [Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee then as now" were two popular songs in 1849] AND "YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!" PUNCH.

[Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N—T—N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL—CHE DE F—TZ—FL—M to C—PT—N DE B—RS, of the C-DS—M G—DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D—CH—SS of S—TH—D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]

"Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on, When gayer scenes recall That fairy face, that stately grace, To reign amid the ball? When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers For fete-champetres shall don, Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow, Still sew my buttons on?

"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet, To meet a freezing eye; The gay, the great, in camp and state, In vain around thee sigh. Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway, To bless a younger son— But when we live in lodgings, say, Wilt sew his buttons on?"

"Yes I will sew thy buttons on, Though all look dark and drear; And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay, Two hundred pounds a year. Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames, Of gauds and gems I'll none; Nor ask to roam, but sit at home, And sew thy buttons on!

"When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush, And fast the waltzers fly, Though tame at tea I bide with thee, No tear shall dim my eye. When summer's close brings Chiswick shows— When all from town have gone, I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown, But sew thy buttons on!"

THE PAID BILL A BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY. PUNCH O fling not this receipt away, Given by one who trusted thee; Mistakes will happen every day However honest folks may be. And sad it is, love, twice to pay; So cast not that receipt away!

Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours, When we this bill have all forgot, They send it in again—ye powers! And swear that we have paid it not— How sweet to know, on such a day We've never cast receipts away!