A beautiful bed of mint.
For a little lamb
Will run to its mam.
And will say "O! dam,"
At a hint, however well intentioned,
When the awful name of mint is mentioned.

At the close of day the burglar comes
For to ply his gentle trade.
I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and
Grow timid and quite afraid.
I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know
That my neighbours of titled rank
Went abroad on a sudden last night and left
Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank.
For a burglar bold
Grows harsh and cold
When he finds he's sold,
And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing
That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing.

I'm a poet--you may not know it,
But I am and hard up for "tin,"
So I've written these clever verses
And I hope they'll get put in.
Yet Life is an awful lottery
With a gruesome lot of blanks,
And I wish the Editor hadn't slips
That are printed "Declined with Thanks."
For it's rather hard