My Lord may walk a pas de Cour

To Jenny's pas de Châlet ;

The folks who ne'er have danced before,

Can dance-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

And here, for ages yet untold,

Long, long before my ditty,

Came high and low, and young and old,

From out the crowded City;

And still to-day they come, they go,

And just as fancies tally,

They foot it quick, they foot it slow,

All day--in 'Cupid's Alley.'

Strange dance! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags ;

Here no distinction flatters,

Here Riches shakes its money-bags

And Poverty its tatters;

Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law ;

Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet;

Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',

They bob-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

Strange pairs! To laughing, fresh Fifteen

Here capers Prudence thrifty;

Here Prodigal leads down the green

A blushing Maid of fifty;

Some treat it as a serious thing,

And some but shilly-shally;

And some have danced without the ring (Ah me!)—in 'Cupid's Alley.'

And sometimes one to one will dance,
And think of one behind her;

And one by one will stand, perchance,

Yet look all ways to find her;

Some seek a partner with a sigh,

Some win him with a sally;

And some, they know not how nor why,

Strange fate of 'Cupid's Alley.'

And some will dance an age or so

Who came for half a minute;

And some, who like the game, will go

Before they well begin it;

And some will vow they're ' danced to death,'

Who (somehow) always rally;

Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith), Strange cures !-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

It may be one will dance to-day,

And dance no more to-morrow;

It be one will steal away may

And nurse a life-long sorrow;

What then? The rest advance, evade,

Unite, dispart, and dally,

Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,

Not less-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

For till that City's wheel-work vast

And shuddering beams shall crumble ;-

And till that Fiddler lean at last

From off his seat shall tumble ;—

Till then (the Civic records say)

This quaint, fantastic ballet

Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay,

Must last-in 'Cupid's Alley.'

ROSE-LEAVES.

"Sans peser.-Sans rester."

These are leaves of my rose,

Pink petals I treasure:

There is more than one knows

In these leaves of my rose ;

O the joys! O the woes!

They are quite beyond measure.

These are leaves of my rose,—

Pink petals I treasure.

E