COCKNEY SONNETS.

BY RALPH RIGMAROLE, ESQUIRE.

No. I.

A gallant knight came pricking o'er the plain,

'Eclad in scarlet and in silver sheen,

Of portly bearing and of noble mien

Fashioned in warlike guise. A goodly train,
In like costume, and each with lance in hand,
Followed the chief, who, ever and anon,
Vented in sharp, authoritative tone,

His will and wishes to his valiant band,
Swart was his brow; and as he forward prest,
Brilliantly glittering in the noonday sun,
The bright memorial of some battle won
Patted inspiringly the warrior's breast.
No feudal lord was he of vassal loons,

But-Sergeant Simkins of the 8th Dragoons!

68

COCKNEY SONNET.

No. II.

A heavenly creature stood before my eyes,

A being fashioned not as mortals are,

But wild in her attire, as if some star
For this dull earth had left its native skies.
Bright was her long and richly-flowing hair,
As the last glance of the departing sun;

And down her back the shining tresses hung,
Kissing the two soft wings which quiver'd there.
A beauteous garland of ever-blooming flowers
From either hand depended, and anon

With light fantastic toe she tripped along,
Whiling in sportive dance the dreary hours.
Yet was she one of no immortal natur',

But-Miss Scraggs, dancer at the "Queen's Theatre."

No. III.

It was the dead of night—and all was hush'd,
Save, ever and anon, the noisy blast

In fitful gusts came whistling wildly past,
Rattling the window-frames as by it rush'd:
When, of a sudden, a piteous, stifled moan

Broke indistinctly on my affrighted ear.