I'll get papa to go and call.

So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel--
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell.
He brought a lady in the carriage--
Blue eyes,--eighteen, or thereabouts--
Of course, you know, we _hope_ it's marriage!
But yet the _femme de chambre_ doubts.
She look'd so pensive when we met her--
Poor thing! and such a charming shawl!
Well! till we understand it better,
It's quite impossible to call.

Old Mr. Fund, the London banker,
Arrived to-day at Premium Court--
I would not, for the world, cast anchor
In such a horrid dangerous port--
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)
The roof's as crazy as its master,
And he was born in fifty-six--
Stairs creaking--cracks in every landing,
The colonnade is sure to fall--
We sha'n't find post or pillar standing,
Unless we make great haste to call.

Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures,
Last Sunday, in the Rector's seat?