LOOK'D for lodgings, long ago,

Away from London's fogs and

fusses;

A rustic Paradise, you know,

Within a walk of trains or 'busses.

I made my choice, and settled down

In such a lovely situation!—

About a dozen miles from town,

And very near a railway-station.

Within my pastoral retreat

No creditor, no care intruded;

My happiness was quite complete

(The "comforts of a home" included).

I found the landlord most polite,

His wife, if possible, politer;—

Their two accomplish'd daughters quite

Electrified the present writer.

A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle

To sing a die-away duet with.

(Say something in the Verdi style,)

Upon my life I never met with.

And yet I waver'd in my choice;

For I believe I'm right in saying

That nothing equall'd Fanny's voice,

Unless it was Maria's playing.

If music be the food of Love,

That was the house for Cupid's diet;

Those two melodious girls, by Jove,

Were never for an instant quiet.

I own that Fanny's voice was sweet,

I own Maria's touch was pearly;

But music's not at all a treat

For those who get it late and early.

The charms that soothe a savage breast

Have got a vice vers fashion

Of putting folks who have the best

Of tempers in an awful passion:

And, when it reach'd a certain stage,

I must confess I couldn't stand it.

I positively swore with rage

And stamp'd and scowl'd like any bandit.

I paid my rent on quarter-day;

Pack'd up my luggage in a hurry,

And, quick as lightning, fled away

To other lodgings down in Surrey.

I'm fairly warn'd—and not in vain;

For one resolve that I have made is—

Not to be domiciled again

With any musical young ladies.