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PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

  Why, y-e-s—­’twas rather late last night;
    In fact, past six this morning. 
  My rascal valet, in a fright,
    Awoke, and gave me warning. 
  But what of that?—­I’m very young. 
    And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
  Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
    So—­pray don’t tell the Governor.[1]

  I dined a quarter after seven,
    With Dashall of the Lancers;
  Went to the opera at eleven,
    To see the ballet-dancers. 
  From thence I saunter’d to the club—­
    Fortune to me’s a sloven—­or,
  I surely must have won one rub,
    But—­mind! don’t tell the Governor!

  I went to Ascot t’other day,
    Drove Kitty in a tandem;
  Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—­
    I’d dined, so drove at random. 
  I betted high—­an “outside” won—­
    I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or
  It ne’er the favourite horse had done,
    But—­don’t you tell the Governor.

  My cottage ornee down at Kew,
    So picturesque and pretty,
  Cost me of thousands not a few,
    To fit it up for Kitty. 
  She said it charm’d her fancy quite,
    But (still I can’t help loving her)
  She bolted with the plate one night—­
    You needn’t tell the Governor.

  My creditors are growing queer,
    Nay, threaten to be furious;
  I’ll scan their paltry bills next year,
    At present I’m not curious. 
  Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
    So I and Harry Grosvenor
  To-morrow start for Gallia’s shore,
    And leave duns—­to the Governor.

    [1] The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for
        Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in
        the terra incognita of allowable rhythm.

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THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.

Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of the Duke of Normandie’s experiment with a terrible self-explosive box, which he had buried in a mound at Woolwich, in the expectation that it would shortly blow up, but which still remains there, to the great terror of the neighbourhood, who are afraid to approach the spot where this destructive engine is interred.  Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the corn-law question under the Treasury bench.  No one knew at what moment it might explode, and blow them to ——.  “The question,” he added, “now is—­who will dig it out?”

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EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.

(From OUR West-end and “The Observer’s” Correspondent.)