SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—­No.  VII.

    I love the night with its mantle dark,
      That hangs like a cloak on the face of the sky;
    Oh what to me is the song of the lark? 
      Give me the owl; and I’ll tell you why. 
    It is that at night I can walk abroad,
      Which I may not do in the garish day,
    Without being met in the streets, and bored
      By some cursed dun, that I cannot pay. 
                No! no! night let it ever be: 
  The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!

    Then tempt me not with thy soft guitar,
      And thy voice like the sound of a silver bell,
    To take a stroll, where the cold ones are
      Who in lanes, not of trees but of fetters[1], dwell. 
    But wait until night upsets its ink
      On the earth, on the sea, and all over the sky,
    And then I’ll go to the wide world’s brink
      With the girl I love, without feeling shy. 
                Oh, then, may it night for ever be! 
  The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!

    But you turn aside!  Ah! did you know,
      What by searching the office you’d plainly see,
    That I’m hunted down, like a (Richard) Roe,
      You’d not thus avert your eyes from me. 
    Oh never did giant look after Thumb
      (When the latter was keeping out of the way)
    With a more tremendous fee-fo-fum
      Than I’m pursued by a dread fi-fa. 
    Too-whit! too-whit! is the owl’s sad song! 
      A writ! a writ! a writ! when mid the throng,
    Is ringing in my ears the whole day long. 
                Ah me! night let it be: 
  The owl! the stately owl! is the bird—­yes, the bird for me!

    [1] Fetter-lane is clearly alluded to by the poet.  It is believed
        to be the bailiffs’ quarter.

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POPISH RED-DRESS.

The Examiner states that there is no such fabric as scarlet cloth made in Ireland.  If this be true, the Lady of Babylon, who is said to reside in that country, and to be addicted to scarlet clothing, must be in a very destitute condition.

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A SPOON CASE.

A well-dressed individual has lately been visiting the lodging-house keepers of the metropolis.  He engages lodgings—­but being, as he says, just arrived from a long journey, he begs to have dinner before he returns to the Coach-Office for his luggage.  This request being usually complied with, the new lodger, while the table is being laid, watches his opportunity and bolts with the silver spoons.  Sir Peter Laurie says, that since this practice of filching the spoons has commenced, he does not feel himself safe in his own house.  He only hopes the thief may be brought before him, and he promises to give him his dessert, by committing him without