ODE TO COLONEL JONES. 



[The cut here given (a gem our artist owns) 

 Begins a series meant to grace this' journal, 



Than Hood's more comic, caustic more than Home's. 

 Whom to select provoked debates diurnal ; 



When just as we had fixed on Colonel Jones, 

 His " head" was offered by the gallant Colonel. 



He, for the wood that forms it, is our creditor ; 



When " worked," the block shall be returned him. Editor.'] 



I. 



DEAR Colonel Jones, descendant of a race 



That hath the Brown and Thompson-tribes surpassed 



In numbers ; and that, shooting up apace, 



Hath into fits good Mr. Malthus cast 



It multiplies so fast ; 



Whose matrons, too compliant, 

 Produce at every second birth a giant ! 

 Witness the many-tongued Sir William Jones, 

 Who spoke all languages that e'er were spoken 

 (And at his fingers' ends quite perfect had 'em, 

 Including Irving's latest) since the tones 

 Of Eve first touched the tympanum of Adam. 

 Or shall we snatch from fiction's page a token, 



And take Tom Jones ? 

 A fellow with more flesh upon his bones, 

 Than all the fops and fools of modern novels, 

 That play the deuce with heroines in hovels. 



Then there's Mercutio Jones, 

 Who quits the stage (ungenerous Jones !) for ever, 

 To manufacture orators from drones, 



And make the clergy clever. 

 But still the list is not yet barren : 

 Who was the star last season ? why, John Jones, 



One of the precious stones 

 Set in the crown of the great farce-king, Farren. 



