will thy departure cloud
The lamplight of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best,--
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly's _Ghost of Grimm?_

XVIII.

For who like thee could ever stride!
Some dozen paces to the mile!--
The motley, medley coach provide--
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The _vegetable man_ complete!--
A proper _Covent Garden_ feat!

XIX.

Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat,--swill, swallow--bolt--and choke!
Nod, weep, and hiccup--sneeze and wink?--
Thy very yawn was quite a joke!
Tho' Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,
"There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!

XX.

Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!
We met with mirth,--we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go
Ere Fun can see thy like again--
For Nature does not keep great stores
Of perfect Clowns--that are not _Boors_!

AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.

"Archer. How many are there, _Scrub_?"
"Scrub. Five-and-forty, Sir." _Beaux' Stratagem_.

"For shame--let the linen alone!" _M. W. of Windsor_.

Mr. Scrub--Mr. Slop--or whoever you be!
The Cock of Steam Laundries,--the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers,--Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime--
Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety--
That make washing public--and wash in society--
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below,--
From your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hot,--
That soft "_simmer's_ sang" so endear'd to the Scot--
If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger--
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub,--
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub,--
And lend me your ear,--Let me modestly plead
For a race that your labors may soon supersede--
For a race that, now washing no living affords--
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease,
Not with bread in the funds--or investments of cheese,--
But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream,
Which the sun has suck'd up into vapor and steam.
Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge--
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge--
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,
And beginneth her toil while the morn is still gray,