A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT. H. G. BELL. THEY'RE stepping off, the friends I knew, I can't get one old crony now They've all grown grave domestic men; I hate to see them sobered down- I hate to hear them sneering now I care not for their married cheer, And though their wife perchance may have A comely sort of face, And at the table's upper end Conduct herself with grace I hate the prim reserve that reigns, How strange! they go to bed at ten, They play at whist for sixpences, They very rarely dance, They never read a word of rhyme, Nor open a romance, They talk, indeed, of politics, And very quietly, with their wives, They get quite skilled in groceries, And then they all have children, too, And yet you may depend upon't, Alas! alas! for years gone by, And for the friends I've lost, TO A DROP OF DEW. THE VERY REV. Henry Alford, D.D., Dean of Canterbury. [Dr. Alford, justly celebrated as a Biblical critic and poet, was born near London in 1810. He was educated at Ilminster Grammar School, and Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems was published 1831; the second, "The School of the Heart, and other Poems," in 1835. From 1853 to 1857, Dr. Alford was officiating minister of Quebec-street Chapel, to which large congregations were attracted by his pulpit eloquence. In 1857 he was presented by the late Lord Palmerston to the Deanery of Canterbury. His grand work, his Greek Testament, in five volumes, was completed in 1861, the first having appeared in 1841. His poetry is elegant and glowing, and breathes a pure Christian spirit. An edition of his poems "for the million" has been published by Messrs. Rivington.] SUN-BEGOTTEN, ocean-born, Sparkling in the summer morn O'er the hill-top on the grass, Round, and bright, and warm, and still, Who may be so blest as thee, Evermore thou drink'st the stream And the best that can be said, (By permission of the Author.) MR. SIMPKINSON'S MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. THE REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. "TWAS in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar boy-I said, "What make you here? The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy; Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar boy? He frowned, that little vulgar boy,-he deemed I meant to scoff And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom roseHe had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose! "Hark! don't you hear, my little man?-it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your ma' will scold-oh! fie! It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!" The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony, he cried like anything! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur-"Ah! I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no ma'! "My father, he is on the seas-my mother's dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor brown' to buy a bit of bread with-let alone a tart. "If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar boy ;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my intent fixed To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monu-ment!" "Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" I kindly said, "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck-then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs! "Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones- —we must not keep her upThere's roast potatoes at the fire,—enough for me and you Come home you little vulgar boy-I lodge at Number 2." I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,-that little vulgar boy, |