IR Toby was a portly party;

Sir Toby took his turtle

hearty;

Sir Toby lived to dine:

Chateau d'Iquen was his fort;

Bacchus would have backt his

port;

He was an Alderman in short

Of the very first water—and wine.

An Alderman of the first degree,

But neither wife nor son had he;

He had a daughter fair:

And often said her father, "Cis,

"You shall be dubb'd 'my Lady,' Miss,

"When I am dubb'd Lord Mayor.

"The day I don the gown and chain,

"In Hymen's modern Fetter-Lane

"You wed Sir Gobble Grist;

"And whilst with pomp and pageant high

"I scrape, and stut, and star it by

"St. George's in the East, you'll try

"St. George's in the West."

Oh vision of paternal pride!

Oh blessed Groom to such a Bride!

Oh happy Lady Cis!

Yet sparks won't always strike the match,

And she may chance to miss her 'catch,'

Or he may catch—a miss!

Such things do happen, here and there,

When Knights are old, and Nymphs are fair,

And who can say they don't?

When Worldly takes the gilded pill,

And Dives stands and says "I will,"

And Beauty says "I WONT!"

Sweet Beauty! Sweeter thus by far—

Young Goddess of the silver star,

Divinity capricious!—

Who would not barter wealth and wig,

And pomp and pride and otium dig,

For Youth—when 'plums' weren't worth a fig

And Venus smiled propitious?

Alas! that beaus will lose their spring,

And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,'

Unstruck by Cupid's dart!

Alas that—must the truth be told—

Yet oft'ner has the archer sold

The 'white and red,' to touch the 'gold,'

And Diamonds trump'd the Heart!

That luckless heart! too soon misplaced!—

Why is it that parental taste

On sagest calculation based

So rarely pleases Miss?

Let those who can, the riddle read;

For me, I've no idea indeed,

No more, perhaps, had Cis.

It might have been she found Sir G.

Less tender than a swain should be,—

Young—sprightly—witty—gay?—

It might have been she thought his hat

Or head too round or square or flat

Or empty—who can say?

What Bard shall dare? Perhaps his nose?—

A shade too pink, or pale, or rose?—

His cut of beard, wig, whisker, hose?—

A wrinkle?—here—or there?—

Perhaps the preux chevalier's chance,

Hung on a word or on a glance,

Or on a single hair!

I know not! But the Parson waited,

The Groomsmen swore, the Bridegroom rated,

Till two o'clock or near;—

Then home again in rage and wrath,

Whilst pretty Cis—— was rattling North

With Jones the Volunteer!