Monday, March 13, 1826. The Budget--Quite Charming And Witty--No Hearing, For Plaudits And Laughs, The Good Things That Were In It;-- Great Comfort To Find, Tho' The Speech Isn't Cheering, That All Its Gay Auditors Were Every Minute. What, Still More Prosperity!--Mercy Upon Us, "This Boy'll Be The Death Of Me"--Oft As, Already, Such Smooth Budgeteers Have Genteelly Undone Us, For Ruin Made Easy There'S No One Like Freddy. Tuesday. Much Grave Apprehension Exprest By The Peers, Lest--Calling To Life The Old Peachums And Lockitts-- The Large Stock Of Gold We're To Have In Three Years, Should All Find Its Way Into Highwaymen'S Pockets![1] Wednesday. Little Doing--For Sacred, Oh Wednesday, Thou Art To The Seven-O'-Clock Joys Of Full Many A Table-- When The Members All Meet, To Make Much Of That Part, With Which They So Rashly Fell Out In The Fable. It Appeared, Tho', To-Night, That--As Church-Wardens Yearly, Eat Up A Small Baby--Those Cormorant Sinners. The Bankrupt Commissioners, Bolt Very Nearly A Moderate-Sized Bankrupt, Tout Chaud, For Their Dinners![2] Nota Bene--A Rumor To-Day, In The City, "Mr. Robinson Just Has Resigned"--What A Pity! The Bulls And The Bears All Fell A Sobbing, When They Heard Of The Fate Of Poor Cock Robin: While Thus, To The Nursery Tune, So Pretty, A Murmuring Stock-Dove Breathed Her Ditty:-- Alas, Poor Robin, He Crowed As Long And As Sweet As A Prosperous Cock Could Crow; But His Note Was Small And The Gold-Finch'S Song Was A Pitch Too High For Robin To Go. Who'll Make His Shroud? "I," Said The Bank, "Tho' He Played Me A Prank, "While I Have A Rag, Poor Rob Shall Be Rolled In'T, "With Many A Pound I'll Paper Him Round, "Like A Plump Rouleau--Without The Gold In It."