can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls,
In scraps of _Galignani_ they'll screw up your little curls;
And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring;
That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor _peut-etre_ a potato, as _some_ Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!"
So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "_Tant mi--eux_!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."--ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil;
Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze,
Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,
That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail,
Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!
And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make!
I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song
That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,
When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin--
Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,
Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong--infant pleasures as weak--
But no grief was allow'd to in