636 Love and Novelism. 



Come, sit with me on London Bridge, 



With but the heavens above 

 With but the crystal stream below, 



To witness to our love : 

 We'll think the hours too swiftly fly, 



Or dream those hours away ; 

 Then shun the world's too-envious eye 



From dawn to setting day. 



Come, sit with me on London Bridge, 



Romantic, silent, still; 

 Or, if my love prefer a walk, 



We'll walk on Fish-street-hill ; 

 Or, if sweet Cheapside please thee best, 



I'll build thee there a cell 

 A hermitage a turtle's nest. 



My Isabinde, farewell ! 



Love-making. Charing Cross. 



The day was as sultry as the inner ring of a fight at Moulsey. I 

 was in full travelling order ; tights, double toggery ; weather-board 

 twice the size of my Lord Worcester's ; cigar fresh lighted j in short, 

 quite an irresistible. 



At half-past twelve, infallible as the pope, drove up Tom Turnout, 

 with his four greys, tooling the Blue Devil Cheltenham stage, a first-rate 

 set-out in all points, over old women, police, beggars, and aldermen, at 

 the rate of twenty miles an hour. I mounted the box beside my friend 

 Tom, and off we flew. The first quarter of an hour was of course a re- 

 gular ploughing-match through the Macadamized streets ; which, if they 

 would apply them to rearing potatoes and cabbages, might answer the 

 purpose ; but as for driving, a gallop along the low water-mark of the 

 Thames at ebb-tide would be much preferable. However, when we 

 at last got out of the streets, I glanced round to examine the live cargo 

 on the roof, Among the twenty packed there and struggling for life 

 among the luggage, nineteen were farmers, tinkers, merchants, par- 

 sons, and similar canaille ; but the twentieth was, by Jupiter, an angel. 

 She would have stopped me in the best hit I ever made in club-room, 

 billiard-room, race-ground, shooting-gallery, or Jackson's. I fell 

 instantly into a fit of poetry and the tender passion. But her eyes, her 

 eyes gas-light, St. Giles's clock, the Lord Mayor's Show, or Lord 

 Harborough's four-in-hand baggage-waggon, were not to be looked 

 at after them. I bewitched her with the following extempore 



SONG. 



Oh ! what upon earth is like woman's bright eye, 



If that eye is but turned upon me ? 

 What's a lamp in the streets, or a star in the sky, 



To that glance which with rapture I see ? 

 Though the coach-wheels may rattle, the horses make battle, 



The reins fly like feathers on air ; 

 Yet when woman's but by, with that light in her eye, 



Life's as smooth as a one-horse chair. 



Though the rabble around us may wish to confound us, 



While I gaze on your twinklers, my dear, 

 All Epsom might go to the regions below, 

 To meet with all Doncaster ther e : 



