The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

577
Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame,
Hath never more than the snuff.
ON A SQUINTING POETESS.
To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine,
But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!
ON A TUET-HUNTER.
Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,
Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,
For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd
A Viscount to a Marquis yet.
Beside his place the God of Wit,
Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,
Apollo for a STAR he'd quit,
And Love's own sister for an Earl's.
Did niggard fate no peers afford,
He took, of course, to peers' relations;
And, rather than not sport a lord,
Put up with even the last creations.
Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em
With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call,
And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum
Was better than no Lord at all.
Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul, he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than saved in vulgar company.
THE KISS.
Give me, my love, that billing kiss