I straightway call'd for ink and pen,
To grandmamma I made appeal;
Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten
I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma, (Her gentle heart my woes could feel) But where I went, and what I saw,

What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal ?
I have no cash, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come,

To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home,

How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boil'd veal;

I turn and look another way,

I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say,
"Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;"

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,
And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,

Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel,

And so he serves me every day

The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face

I blush as red as cochineal;

And think did he but know my case,

How changed he'd be, my host of Lille!

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal ?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
I perspirate from head to heel;
I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise,
How can I, without cash at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot
By cafés where in beer they deal;
I think how pleasant were a pot,
A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick,
All girt around with guard and grille ?
Oh! gracious gods, it makes me sick,
It is the prison-house of Lille!

Oh cursed prison strong and barred,
It does my very blood congeal!

I tremble as I pass the guard,
And quit that ugly part of Lille.

prays,

The church-door beggar whines and
I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,
And at a Popish altar kneel ?
O do not leave me in the lurch,—
I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,

Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe

A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real),
It smiled, and turn'd to grandmamma!—
It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat,

Although I could not pay, my meal : I hasten back into the street

Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,—

A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,"To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat,

I pant and stagger, faint and reel !

It is it is a ten-pound note,

And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

LYRA HIBERNICA.

THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY.

THE PIMLICO PAVILION.

YE pathrons of janius, Minerva, and Vanius,
Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow,
Descind from your station and make observation
Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

This garden by jakurs, is forty poor acres,

(The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know ;)

And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure,

Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row,

Forgetful what state is among the pataties

And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

There in blossoms odo'rous the birds sing a chorus,
Of" God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro;
And
you sit on the binches and hark to the finches,
Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.

There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses
That round in the gardens resplindently grow,

Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins,
Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.

You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther,

Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow,
A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows
Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid
You see on its summit a wondtherful show-
A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding,
The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.

Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,)

With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion,
Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on,
And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow;
I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead
Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.

O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O,
And while round the chamber astonished I go ;
I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces,
Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,)
And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below;
While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers,
Is painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.

And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it;
O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow:

But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-áture

He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.

There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings;
There's Dice, as brave masther as England can show;
And the flowers and the sthrawberries, sure he no dauber is,
That painted the panels of famed Pimlico!