CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. My sprightly neighbor! gone before Shall we not meet, as heretofore Some summer morning- A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning? CHARLES LAMB. CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. OR many a winter in Billiter-lane, FOR My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard tc complain; At Christmas the family met there to dine On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. To Brighton we duly go scampering down, Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time, queen; These pastimes gave oil to Time's roundabout wheel, Before we began to be growing genteel; CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown, But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop; Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff, Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the Cliff; Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt, Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon, And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon; My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane, And murmur in secret,-"Oh, Billiter-lane!" But would not express what I think for a crown, For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, His Majesty never invites me to dine; The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier, Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here. If that be the case, why then welcome again Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane. Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. JAMES SMITH. 259 SONG TO FANNY. N ATURE! thy fair and smiling face Has now a double power to bless, Her heavenly eyes above me shine, The rose reflects her modest blush, She breathes in every eglantine, She sings in every warbling thrush. That her dear form alone I see Need not excite surprise in any, For Fanny's all the world to me, And all the world to me is Fanny. HORACE SMITH. 260 |