ong;
But just in the middle,--Oh! shocking to tell,
From his rope in an instant poor Harlequin fell.
Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons outspread
Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the _Grasshopper_ came with a jerk and a spring;
Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing:
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the _Snail_ did advance,
And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance.
But they all laugh'd so loud that he pull'd in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then, as Evening gave way to the Shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the _Glowworm_, came out with a light.

Then Home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you and for me.
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions return'd in a throng.

THE
FANCY FAIR;

OR,

GRAND GALA
OF THE
ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

Some years are elapsed, and some worthies are gone,
Since _Peacocks_ and _Butterflies_ mimick'd the _ton_,
And gave, in a manner becoming their station,
Their _fetes_ and their _balls_ to their fellow-creation.
Then _Roscoe_ and _Dorset_, high-talented elves,
Amused other people and solaced themselves,
In describing the revels, the gibes, and the jokes,
Of the creatures of earth, and the feathery folks;
Of their fashion and fancy, the ebbs and the flows,
And the beauty and wit of their belles and their beaux.
But the world has spun round like a peg top since then,
And imparted more knowledge to brutes and to men;
New lights and perceptions old customs explode,
And what is done now, must be done _a-la-mode_.
Old fashions are fled, and what more can we say
Than that _Dorset_ and _Roscoe_ might do for that day,
But that Poets must deck in more dignified rhymes
The wonderful deeds of these wonderful times?
That _Augusta_ may spread her renown and her glory,
Her famed _Fancy Fairs_ must be studded in story,
And ages unborn learn the elegant Games
Of the _Gardens_ that bloom on the south of the Thames.
Old _Dryden_ the bard was at best but a gander,
In singing the _Feast_ of the great _Alexander_;
For what breast with the fumes