aimed with care, then let the ball fly free.
Twice, thrice, nay, thirty times he flung, his BETSY standing by,
And scornfully advising him to close his other eye.
Yet, when at last he had to own he could not do the trick,
No solitary cocoa-nut had toppled from its stick.

Papa is in his glory here, that proud and happy man,
But in spite of all his efforts, he can't get coloured tan.
Yet every week-day morning, from ten o'clock till one,
He turns that British face of his unflinching to the sun.
Mamma she sits beside him; I overheard her say,
"Lor, Pa, you'll soon be brown as brown, you're not so red to-day."
But wives can't flatter tints away, and when he leaves the place,
I'd guarantee to light my pipe at Pa's tomato face.

A front-row stall I quick secured, a green and gaudy bench,
And paid my humble penny to a very buxom wench.
The tide was running out amain, and slowly, bit by bit,
She moved her back seats forward till she left me in the pit.
Stout Mr. BIGGS, the hair-dresser, the Bond-Street mould of form,
Sat next me with his family, and seemed to find it warm;
And, while admiring Mrs. B. hung on her BIGGS's lips.
He favoured me, as is his wont, with all the sporting tips.

But the most delightful object I saw upon that shore
Was a ruddy-faced and chubby-legged philosopher of four.
Though his sisters capered round him, the sage refused to budge,
He continued quietly digging just as solemn as a judge;
And if he fell, as men may fall, he spurned their proffered aid,
But lay awhile and pondered, while he clutched his wooden spade;
Then, having thought some problem out, and found that life was vain,
He slowly raised his three-foot form, and set to work again.

And so the round of pleasure goes; a man could scarce believe
How swift the merry hours spin by from dewy morn to eve.
The goat-carts never want for fares fresh from their nurses' arms,
All day the patient donkeys bear some maid's or matron's charms.
The haughty ones may carp and sneer, we know their sorry style,
But we who revel on this shore can hear them with a smile.
We may be vulgar; what's the odds? We're cottage-folk, not "Grands,"
And our simple pleasures please us on the jolly Ramsgate Sands.

* * * * *

DRURIOLANUS'S NEXT.--_The Prodigal Daughter_ is to be produced,
when she's of proper age to come out, at Drury Lane. Who gave her
that name? I