A CHAPTEE ON ANNUALS. 



What quarry rare produced the block ? . . 



A magic round it plays ! 

 He gazed as sharp-eyed falcons 



Upon their quarry gaze ! 



He loved the nymph such solid love ! 



Yet hardly loved, you'll own : 

 His moving her ne'er soften'd rocks, 



Nor touched her heart of stone. 



A plain gold ring the fair to wed 



He on her finger hung : 

 What folly 'twas to think to ring 



A Belle without a tongue ! 



Moved by his tears, fair Venus cried, 



" No fate from you shall tear her ; 

 " Your chosen fair I'll animate 



" Not any mate is fairer !" 



The statue breathed his friends all came, 



And viewing, cried with vigour, 

 (Both those who praised and those who blamed)- 



" You've cut a pretty figure !" 



Sweet pledges of connubial love, 



He soon could boast a stock 

 And all the little family 



Were " chips of the old block." 



489 



M.M. No. 95. 



BILL 'S-TICKE R ! 



3R 



