When I walk on the banks of the Mole,
Or recline 'neath our favourite tree,
As the needle is true to the pole,
So my thoughts still concentre in thee.
Old Time moves so slow, he appears,
"With age quite decrepit," to crawl;
And days seem now lengthen'd to years,
Before we shall meet--at your ball.

DAFT JAMIE.

* * * * *



RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

* * * * *

(_To the Editor of the Mirror._)

Having occasionally (during my lucubrations) marked out sundry
choice excerpts, quips, and quiddities, from a variety of authors, I
shall, with your permission, submit to the reader an occasional
chapter, with a few original remarks, &c., which I hope will prove
agreeable.

JACOBUS.