DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.

"I really take it very kind, This visit, Mrs. Skinner!

I have not seen you such an age-- (The wretch has come to dinner!)

"Your daughters, too, what loves of girls-- What heads for painters' easels!

Come here and kiss the infant, dears-- (And give it p'rhaps the measles!)

"Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russell's; 'Twas very kind to bring them both-- (What boots for my new Brussels!)

"What! little Clara left at home?

Well now I call that shabby: I should have loved to kiss her so-- (A flabby, dabby, babby!)

"And Mr. S., I hope he's well, Ah! though he lives so handy, He never now drops in to sup-- (The better for our brandy!)

"Come, take a seat--I long to hear About Matilda's marriage; You're come of course to spend the day!

(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage!)

"What! must you go? next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay--I shall see you down the stairs-- (With most uncommon pleasure!)

"Good-bye! good-bye! remember all, Next time you'll take your dinners!

(Now, David, mind I'm not at home In future to the Skinners!")

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepar'd."--_Macheath._

If I shoot any more I'll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march'd the whole day With a gun,--for no pay-- Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!

With confidence fraught My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet!

And that gamekeeper too, with advice!

Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they'd cry "Walker!"

Not Hawker could find out a flaw,-- My appointments are modern and Mantony; And I've brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can't find a mark for my Anthony!

The partridges,--where can they lie?

I have promis'd a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,--I'm getting quite nervous!

To the pheasants--how well they're preserv'd!-- My sport's not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send "silver pheasants and golden."

I have tried ev'ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax'd, Till my patience is tax'd, But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder.

I've been roaming for hours in three flats, In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for "setting my cap at!"

A woodcock,--this month is the time,-- Right and left I've made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But 'spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for!

A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day's the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.

For a mallard I've waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake--oh!

Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird!

I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem overloaded.

As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search'd round and round, All the Baronet's ground, But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there!

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring, And it's really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder renown'd for "quick firing."

If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can't have a high sense; And there still remains one More mischance on my gun-- "Fined for shooting without any licence."

JOHN DAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"A Day after the Fair."--_Old Proverb_.

John Day he was the biggest man Of all the coachman kind, With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind.

The very horses knew his weight, When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas box, To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love, What armor can avail?

Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved, From whom he never ranged, For though he changed his horses there, His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares, So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pump-- He came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn To like so huge a man, So I must beg you will come here As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit With vows, and sighs, and tears, Yet could not pierce her heart, altho'

He drove the Dart for years.