1830.]' [ 15 ] 



THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 



How hard, when those who do not wish 

 To lend, that's Jose, their books, 



Are snared by anglers folks that fish 

 With literary hooks; 



Who call and take some favourite tome, 



But never read it through ; 

 They thus complete their set at home, 



By making one at you. 



Behold the book-shelf of a dunce 



Who borrows never lends ; 

 Yon work, in twenty volumes, once 



Belonged to twenty friends. 



New tales and novels you may shut 



From view 'tis all in vain ; 

 They're gone and though the leaves are " cut," 



They never " come again." 



For pamphlets lent I look around, 



For tracts my tears are spilt ; 

 But when they take a book that's bound, 



'Tis surely extra-guilt. 



A circulating library 



Is mine my birds are flown ; 

 There's one odd volume left, to be 

 Like all the rest, a-lone. 



I, of my tf Spencer" quite bereft, 



Last winter sore was shaken ; 

 Of " Lamb" I've but a quarter left, 



Nor could I save my " Bacon." 



My " Hall" and Hill" were levelled Hat, 

 But " Moore" was still the cry; 



And then, although I threw them " Sprat," 

 They swallowed up my " Pye." 



O'er every thing, however slight, 

 They seized some airy trammel ; 



They snatched my " Hogg" and " Fox" one night, 

 And pocketed my." Campbell." 



And then I saw my " Crabbe" at last, 



Like Hamlet's, backward go ; 

 And as my tide was ebbing fast, 



Of course I lost my " Howe." 



I wondered into what balloon 



My books their course had bent ; 

 And yet, with all my marvelling, soon 

 I found my " Marvell" went. 



My " Mallet" served to knock me down, 

 Which makes me thus a talker ; 



And once, while I was out of town, 

 My " Johnson" proved a Walker. 



