RONDEAU. [EXTRACTED FROM A WELL-KNOWN ANNUAL.]

O CURIOUS reader, didst thou ne’er Behold a worshipful Lord May’r Seated in his great civic chair So dear? Then cast thy longing eyes this way, It is the ninth November day, And in his new-born state survey One here! To rise from little into great Is pleasant; but to sink in state From high to lowly is a fate Severe. Too soon his shine is overcast, Chill’d by the next November blast; His blushing honours only last One year! He casts his fur and sheds his chains, And moults till not a plume remains— The next impending May’r distrains His gear. He slips like water through a sieve— Ah, could his little splendour live Another twelvemonth—he would give One ear!