C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on l'ignore. La fut mon lit, bien chetif et bien dur; La fut ma table; et je retrouve encore Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur. Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps, Vingt fois pour vous j'ai ma montre en gage. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans!

Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau; Deja sa main a l'etroite fenetre Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette; Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. Jai su depuis qui payait sa toilette Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans!

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, Quand jusqu'ici monte on cri d'allegresse; A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence; Nous celebrons tant de faits eclatans. Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans!

Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre. Oh! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrettes! J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste a vivre Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu ma comptes. Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instans, D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie, Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans!



THE GARRET.

With pensive eyes the little room I view, Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long; With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, And a light heart still breaking into song: Making a mock of life, and all its cares, Rich in the glory of my rising sun, Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes; 'tis a garret—let him know't who will— There was my bed—full hard it was and small; My table there—and I decipher still Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun; For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

And see my little Jessy, first of all; She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise; Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, And when did woman look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I Made happy music with our songs and cheers, A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, And distant cannon opened on our ears: We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,— Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won— Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone—the place is sad and strange— How far, far off, these happy times appear; All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here— To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one!



ROGER-BONTEMPS.

Aux gens atrabilaires Pour exemple donne, En un temps de miseres Roger-Bontemps est ne. Vivre obscur a sa guise, Narguer les mecontens; Eh gai! c'est la devise Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Du chapeau de son pere Coiffe dans les grands jours, De roses ou de lierre Le rajeunir toujours; Mettre un manteau de bure, Vieil ami de vingt ans; Eh gai! c'est la parure Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Posseder dans en hutte Une table, un vieux lit, Des cartes, une flute, Un broc que Dieu remplit; Un portrait de maitresse, Un coffre et rien dedans; Eh gai! c'est la richesse Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Aux enfans de la ville Montrer de petite jeux; Etre fesseur habile De contes graveleux; Ne parler que de danse Et d'almanachs chantans: Eh gai! c'est la science Du gros Roger-bontemps.

Faute de vins d'elite, Sabler ceux du canton: Preferer Marguerite Aux dames du grand ton: De joie et de tendresse Remplir tous ses instans: Eh gai! c'est la sagesse Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Dire au ciel: Je me fie, Mon pere, a ta bonte; De ma philosophie Pardonne le gaite; Que ma saison derniere Soit encore un printemps; Eh gai! c'est la priere Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Vous pauvres pleins d'envie, Vous riches desireux, Vous, dont le char devie Apres un cours heureux; Vous qui perdrez peut-etre Des titres eclatans, Eh gai! prenez pour maitre Le gros Roger-Bontemps.



JOLLY JACK.

When fierce political debate Throughout the isle was storming, And Rads attacked the throne and state, And Tories the reforming, To calm the furious rage of each, And right the land demented, Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach The way to be contented.

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, His chair, a three-legged stool; His broken jug was emptied oft, Yet, somehow, always full. His mistress' portrait decked the wall, His mirror had a crack; Yet, gay and glad, though this was all His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.

To give advice to avarice, Teach pride its mean condition, And preach good sense to dull pretence, Was honest Jack's high mission. Our simple statesman found his rule Of moral in the flagon, And held his philosophic school Beneath the "George and Dragon."

When village Solons cursed the Lords, And called the malt-tax sinful, Jack heeded not their angry words, But smiled and drank his skinful. And when men wasted health and life, In search of rank and riches, Jack marked aloof the paltry strife, And wore his threadbare breeches.

"I enter not the church," he said, "But I'll not seek to rob it;" So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, While others studied Cobbett. His talk it was of feast and fun; His guide the Almanack; From youth to age thus gayly run The life of Jolly Jack.

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, He humbly thanked his Maker; "I am," said he, "O Father good! Nor Catholic nor Quaker: Give each his creed, let each proclaim His catalogue of curses; I trust in Thee, and not in them, In Thee, and in Thy mercies!

"Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, No hint I see of damning; And think there's faith among the Turks, And hope for e'en the Brahmin. Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, And kindly is my laughter: I cannot see the smiling earth, And think there's hell hereafter."

Jack died; he left no legacy, Save that his story teaches:— Content to peevish poverty; Humility to riches. Ye scornful great, ye envious small, Come follow in his track; We all were happier, if we all Would copy JOLLY JACK.



IMITATION OF HORACE.

TO HIS SERVING BOY.

Persicos odi Puer, apparatus; Displicent nexae Philyra coronae: Mitte sectari, Rosa qua locorum Sera moretur.

Simplici myrto Nihil allabores Sedulus, curo: Neque te ministrum Dedecet myrtus, Neque me sub arcta Vite bibentem.



AD MINISTRAM.

Dear LUCY, you know what my wish is,— I hate all your Frenchified fuss: Your silly entrees and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in ruffles Need dangle behind my arm-chair; And never mind seeking for truffles, Although they be ever so rare.

But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I prithee get ready at three: Have it smoking, and tender and juicy, And what better meat can there be? And when it has feasted the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade.



OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES.



THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.*

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie, Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er: My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd, As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest!

When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest.

The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-melee. In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest!

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine That others usurped for a time what was mine! There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me: Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his crest.

* "WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

"Your Molly has never been false," she declares, "Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs; When I said that I would continue the same, And I gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name. When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you, Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew? To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd, For his trousers I washed, and his grog too I made.

"Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sall, In silence I stood your unkindness to hear And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized? For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised; Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake, Still your trousers I'll wash and your grog too I'll make."



THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.

Your Fanny was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette!

We spent en province all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisois moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances, And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit coeur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set; And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her My beautiful vinegarette!

Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you're forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from those Circes, Reviens, for a nice little chat; And I've made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat!



WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.

When the moonlight's on the mountain And the gloom is on the glen, At the cross beside the fountain There is one will meet thee then. At the cross beside the fountain; Yes, the cross beside the fountain, There is one will meet thee then!

I have braved, since first we met, love, Many a danger in my course; But I never can forget, love, That dear fountain, that old cross, Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her— For the winds were chilly then— First I met my Leonora, When the gloom was on the glen.

Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, Many a land I've wandered o'er; But a valley like that glen, love, Half so dear I never sor! Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, Than wert thou, my true love, when In the gloaming first I saw yer, In the gloaming of the glen!



THE RED FLAG.

Where the quivering lightning flings His arrows from out the clouds, And the howling tempest sings And whistles among the shrouds, 'Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride Along the foaming brine— Wilt be the Rover's bride? Wilt follow him, lady mine? Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny brine.

Amidst the storm and rack, You shall see our galley pass, As a serpent, lithe and black, Glides through the waving grass. As the vulture swift and dark, Down on the ring-dove flies, You shall see the Rovers bark Swoop down upon his prize. Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny prize.

Over her sides we dash, We gallop across her deck— Ha! there's a ghastly gash On the merchant-captain's neck— Well shot, well shot, old Ned! Well struck, well struck, black James! Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, And we leave a ship in flames! Hurrah! For the bonny, bonny flames!



DEAR JACK.

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot— In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.

One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your last bier." We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.



COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.

The Pope he is a happy man, His Palace is the Vatican, And there he sits and drains his can: The Pope he is a happy man. I often say when I'm at home, I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

And then there's Sultan Saladin, That Turkish Soldan full of sin; He has a hundred wives at least, By which his pleasure is increased: I've often wished, I hope no sin, That I were Sultan Saladin.

But no, the Pope no wife may choose, And so I would not wear his shoes; No wine may drink the proud Paynim, And so I'd rather not be him: My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, And would be neither Turk nor Pope.



WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.

When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleep Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England's loveliest shine— I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems— And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures— There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope—but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames?



KING CANUTE.

KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more; And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.

'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages,—all the officers of state.

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws; If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.

But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young: Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue.

"Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal. "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?" "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch, "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.

"'Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair: Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care? Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary."—Some one cried, "The King's arm- chair!"

Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able- bodied; Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.

"Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, "over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?" Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is glory like to thine?"

"What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old; Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold; Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

"Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites; Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights; Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights.

"Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires; Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires.—" "Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, "every one admires."

"But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search, They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.

"Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty raised; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised: YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!"

"Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my end is drawing near." "Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear). "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year."

"Live these fifty years!" the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. "Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute! Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't.

"Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as they?" "Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "fervently I trust he may."

"HE to die?" resumed the Bishop. He a mortal like to US? Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus: Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus.

"With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.

"Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still? So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will."

"Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?" Canute cried; "Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.

"Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?" Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine." Canute turned towards the ocean—"Back!" he said, "thou foaming brine.

"From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat: Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!"

But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore.

And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey: And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway.



FRIAR'S SONG.

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner: But better far's the mid-day bell, Which speaks the hour of dinner; For when I see a smoking fish, Or capon drown'd in gravy, Or noble haunch on silver dish, Full glad I sing my ave.

My pulpit is an alehouse bench, Whereon I sit so jolly; A smiling rosy country wench My saint and patron holy. I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak A most religious ave.

And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving; For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living. Above, they say, our flesh is air, Our blood celestial ichor: Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, They may not change our liquor!



ATRA CURA.

Before I lost my five poor wits, I mind me of a Romish clerk, Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, Beside the belted horseman sits. Methought I saw the grisly sprite Jump up but now behind my Knight.

And though he gallop as he may, I mark that cursed monster black Still sits behind his honor's back, Tight squeezing of his heart alway. Like two black Templars sit they there, Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.

No knight am I with pennoned spear, To prance upon a bold destrere: I will not have black Care prevail Upon my long-eared charger's tail, For lo, I am a witless fool, And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.



REQUIESCAT.

Under the stone you behold, Buried, and coffined, and cold, Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.

Always he marched in advance, Warring in Flanders and France, Doughty with sword and with lance.

Famous in Saracen fight, Rode in his youth the good knight, Scattering Paynims in flight.

Brian the Templar untrue, Fairly in tourney he slew, Saw Hierusalem too.

Now he is buried and gone, Lying beneath the gray stone: Where shall you find such a one?

Long time his widow deplored, Weeping the fate of her lord, Sadly cut off by the sword.

When she was eased of her pain, Came the good Lord Athelstane, When her ladyship married again.



LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.

BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN.

The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea: I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more. I stood upon the donjon keep—it is a sacred place,— Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield.

The first time England saw the shield 'twas round a Norman neck, On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck. A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' fatal fray— St. Willibald for Bareacres! 'twas double gules that day! O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince! At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!

'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing! Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus! O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear? I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!

Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine! Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line: Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls. Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, 'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile. I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I'll muse on other days, and wish—and wish I were—A SNOB.



THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.

I.

[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]

A thousand years ago, or more, A city filled with burghers stout, And girt with ramparts round about, Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore. In armor bright, by day and night, The sentries they paced to and fro. Well guarded and walled was this town, and called By different names, I'd have you to know; For if you looks in the g'ography books, In those dictionaries the name it varies, And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.

II.

[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, Kiova within was a place of renown, With more advantages than in those dark ages Were commonly known to belong to a town. There were places and squares, and each year four fairs, And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors; And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace; And a church with clocks for the orthodox— With clocks and with spires, as religion desires; And beadles to whip the bad little boys Over their poor little corduroys, In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise; And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green With ancient trees, underneath whose shades Wandered nice young nursery-maids.

[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding, The bells they made a merry merry ring, From the tall tall steeple; and all the people (Except the Jews) came and filled the pews— Poles, Russians and Germans, To hear the sermons Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles, For the safety of their souls.

III.

[How this priest was short and fat of body;]

A worthy priest he was and a stout— You've seldom looked on such a one; For, though he fasted thrice in a week, Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek; His waist it spanned two yards about And he weighed a score of stone.

IV.

[And like unto the author of "Plymley's Letters."]

A worthy priest for fasting and prayer And mortification most deserving; And as for preaching beyond compare, He'd exert his powers for three or four hours, With greater pith than Sydney Smith Or the Reverend Edward Irving.

V.

[Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent was built.]

He was the prior of Saint Sophia (A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know)— Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow, Built by missionaries I can't tell when; Who by their discussions converted the Russians, And made them Christian men.

VI.

[Of Saint Sophia of Kioff; and how her statue miraculously travelled thither.]

Sainted Sophia (so the legend vows) With special favor did regard this house; And to uphold her converts' new devotion Her statue (needing but her legs for HER ship) Walks of itself across the German Ocean; And of a sudden perches In this the best of churches, Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful worship.

VII.

[And how Kioff should have been a happy city; but that]

Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers Recorded here in catalogue precise, A goodly city, worthy magistrates, You would have thought in all the Russian states The citizens the happiest of all creatures,— The town itself a perfect Paradise.

VIII.

[Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it,]

No, alas! this well-built city Was in a perpetual fidget; For the Tartars, without pity, Did remorselessly besiege it.

Tartars fierce, with sword and sabres, Huns and Turks, and such as these, Envied much their peaceful neighbors By the blue Borysthenes.

[Murdering the citizens,]

Down they came, these ruthless Russians, From their steppes, and woods, and fens, For to levy contributions On the peaceful citizens.

Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn, Down they came to peaceful Kioff, Killed the burghers when they caught 'em, If their lives they would not buy off.

[Until they agreed to pay a tribute yearly.]

Till the city, quite confounded By the ravages they made, Humbly with their chief compounded, And a yearly tribute paid.

[How they paid the tribute, and suddenly refused it,]

Which (because their courage lax was) They discharged while they were able: Tolerated thus the tax was, Till it grew intolerable,

[To the wonder of the Cossack envoy.]

And the Calmuc envoy sent, As before to take their dues all, Got, to his astonishment, A unanimous refusal!

[Of a mighty gallant speech]

"Men of Kioff!" thus courageous Did the stout lord-mayor harangue them, "Wherefore pay these sneaking wages To the hectoring Russians? hang them!

[That the lord-mayor made,]

"Hark! I hear the awful cry of Our forefathers in their graves; "'Fight, ye citizens of Kioff! Kioff was not made for slaves.'

[Exhorting the burghers to pay no longer.]

"All too long have ye betrayed her; Rouse, ye men and aldermen, Send the insolent invader— Send him starving back again."

IX.

[Of their thanks and heroic resolves.]

He spoke and he sat down; the people of the town, Who were fired with a brave emulation, Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks unto the lord- Mayor for his oration:

[They dismiss the envoy, and set about drilling.]

The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his fist So much as a single shilling; And all with courage fired, as his lordship he desired, At once set about their drilling.

[Of the City guard: viz. Militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, and their commanders.]

Then every city ward established a guard, Diurnal and nocturnal: Militia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombardiers, With an alderman for colonel.

[Of the majors and captains.]

There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing city walls, And filling up of fosses: And the captains and the majors, gallant and courageous, A-riding about on their hosses.

[The fortifications and artillery.]

To be guarded at all hours they built themselves watch-towers, With every tower a man on; And surely and secure, each from out his embrasure, Looked down the iron cannon!

[Of the conduct of the actors and the clergy.]

A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where it Was sung with vast energy And rapturous applause; and besides, the public cause, Was supported by the clergy.

The pretty ladies'-maids were pinning of cockades, And tying on of sashes; And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers bluster'd fierce, About gunshot and gashes;

[Of the ladies;]

The ladies took the hint, and all day were scraping lint, As became their softer genders; And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for the heads Of the city's brave defenders.

[And, finally, of the taylors.]

The men, both young and old, felt resolute and bold, And panted hot for glory; Even the tailors 'gan to brag, and embroidered on their flag, "AUT WINCERE AUT MORI."

X.

[Of the Cossack chief,—his stratagem;]

Seeing the city's resolute condition, The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it, Said to himself, "Not having ammunition Wherewith to batter the place in proper form, Some of these nights I'll carry it by storm, And sudden escalade it or surprise it.

[And the burghers' sillie victorie.]

"Let's see, however, if the cits stand firmish." He rode up to the city gates; for answers, Out rushed an eager troop of the town elite, And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish: The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat, Leaving the victory with the city lancers.

[What prisoners they took,]

They took two prisoners and as many horses, And the whole town grew quickly so elate With this small victory of their virgin forces, That they did deem their privates and commanders So many Caesars, Pompeys, Alexanders, Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great.

[And how conceited they were.]

And puffing with inordinate conceit They utterly despised these Cossack thieves; And thought the ruffians easier to beat Than porters carpets think, or ushers boys. Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys, The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves.

[Of the Cossack chief,—his orders;]

"Whene'er you meet yon stupid city hogs." (He bade his troops precise this order keep), "Don't stand a moment—run away, you dogs!" 'Twas done; and when they met the town battalions, The Cossacks, as if frightened at their valiance, Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep.

[And how he feigned a retreat.]

They fled, obedient to their captain's order: And now this bloodless siege a month had lasted, When, viewing the country round, the city warder (Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perch Upon the steeple of St. Sophy's church), Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast he blasted.

[The warder proclayms the Cossacks' retreat, and the citie greatly rejoyces.]

His voice it might be heard through all the streets (He was a warder wondrous strong in lung), "Victory, victory! the foe retreats!" "The foe retreats!" each cries to each he meets; "The foe retreats!" each in his turn repeats. Gods! how the guns did roar, and how the joy-bells rung!

Arming in haste his gallant city lancers, The mayor, to learn if true the news might be, A league or two out issued with his prancers. The Cossacks (something had given their courage a damper) Hastened their flight, and 'gan like mad to scamper: Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free!

XI.

Now, puffed with pride, the mayor grew vain, Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 'Tis true he might amuse himself thus, And not be very murderous; For as of those who to death were done The number was exactly NONE, His lordship, in his soul's elation, Did take a bloodless recreation—

[The manner of the citie's rejoycings,]

Going home again, he did ordain A very splendid cold collation For the magistrates and the corporation; Likewise a grand illumination, For the amusement of the nation. That night the theatres were free, The conduits they ran Malvolsie; Each house that night did beam with light And sound with mirth and jollity;

[And its impiety.]

But shame, O shame! not a soul in the town, Now the city was safe and the Cossacks flown, Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose care The town had been rid of these terrible Turks— Said even a prayer to that patroness fair, For these her wondrous works!

[How the priest, Hyacinth, waited at church, and nobody came thither.]

Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors— He waited at church with the rest of his friars; He went there at noon and he waited till ten, Expecting in vain the lord-mayor and his men. He waited and waited from mid-day to dark; But in vain—you might search through the whole of the church, Not a layman, alas! to the city's disgrace, From mid-day to dark showed his nose in the place. The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk, Kept away from their work, and were dancing like mad Away in the streets with the other mad people, Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tipple Wherever the drink might be had.

XII.

[How he went forth to bid them to prayer.]

Amidst this din and revelry throughout the city roaring, The silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven soaring; Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees adoring: "Towards my precious patroness this conduct sure unfair is; I cannot think, I must confess, what keeps the dignitaries And our good mayor away, unless some business them contraries." He puts his long white mantle on and forth the prior sallies— (His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds and not on malice): Heavens! how the banquet lights they shone about the mayor's palace!

[How the grooms and lackeys jeered him.]

About the hall the scullions ran with meats both and fresh and potted; The pages came with cup and can, all for the guests allotted; Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up the stairs he trotted!

He entered in the ante-rooms where sat the mayor's court in; He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and a-sporting; The horrid wine and 'bacco fumes, they set the prior a-snorting! The prior thought he'd speak about their sins before he went hence, And lustily began to shout of sin and of repentance; The rogues, they kicked the prior out before he'd done a sentence!

And having got no portion small of buffeting and tussling, At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat the mayor a-guzzling, And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white sprig muslin.

[And the mayor, mayoress, and aldermen, being tipsie refused to go church.]

Around the table in a ring the guests were drinking heavy; They'd drunk the church, and drunk the king, and the army and the navy; In fact they'd toasted everything. The prior said, "God save ye!"

The mayor cried, "Bring a silver cup—there's one upon the beaufet; And, Prior, have the venison up—it's capital rechauffe. And so, Sir Priest, you've come to sup? And pray you, how's Saint Sophy?" The prior's face quite red was grown, with horror and with anger; He flung the proffered goblet down—it made a hideous clangor; And 'gan a-preaching with a frown—he was a fierce haranguer.

He tried the mayor and aldermen—they all set up a-jeering: He tried the common-councilmen—they too began a-sneering; He turned towards the may'ress then, and hoped to get a hearing. He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the muslin snowy, "To church, to church, my sweet mistress!" he cried; "the way I'll show ye." Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as Chloe!

XIII.

[How the prior went back alone.]

Out from this dissolute and drunken court Went the good prior, his eyes with weeping dim: He tried the people of a meaner sort— They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, And not a single soul would follow him! But all were swigging schnaps and guzzling beer.

He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and spouses, Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses: Alas, unthinking of the danger near! One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded, The rest were sharing in the general feast: "God wot, our tipsy town is poorly warded; Sweet Saint Sophia help us!" cried the priest.

Alone he entered the cathedral gate, Careful he locked the mighty oaken door; Within his company of monks did wait, A dozen poor old pious men—no more. Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore, To think of those lost souls, given up to drink and fate!

[And shut himself into Saint Sophia's chapel with his brethren.]

The mighty outer gate well barred and fast, The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones, They through the solitary chancel passed. The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast, And rendered, ghost-like, melancholy tones.

Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh a Small iron gate, the which they entered quick at, They locked and double-locked the inner wicket And stood within the chapel of Sophia. Vain were it to describe this sainted place, Vain to describe that celebrated trophy, The venerable statue of Saint Sophy, Which formed its chiefest ornament and grace.

Here the good prior, his personal griefs and sorrows In his extreme devotion quickly merging, At once began to pray with voice sonorous; The other friars joined in pious chorus, And passed the night in singing, praying, scourging, In honor of Sophia, that sweet virgin.

XIV.

[The episode of Sneezoff and Katinka.]

Leaving thus the pious priest in Humble penitence and prayer, And the greedy cits a-feasting, Let us to the walls repair.

Walking by the sentry-boxes, Underneath the silver moon, Lo! the sentry boldly cocks his— Boldly cocks his musketoon.

Sneezoff was his designation, Fair-haired boy, for ever pitied; For to take his cruel station, He but now Katinka quitted.

Poor in purse were both, but rich in Tender love's delicious plenties; She a damsel of the kitchen, He a haberdasher's 'prentice.

'Tinka, maiden tender-hearted, Was dissolved in tearful fits, On that fatal night she parted From her darling, fair-haired Fritz.

Warm her soldier lad she wrapt in Comforter and muffettee; Called him "general" and "captain," Though a simple private he.

"On your bosom wear this plaster, 'Twill defend you from the cold; In your pipe smoke this canaster, Smuggled 'tis, my love, and old.

"All the night, my love, I'll miss you." Thus she spoke; and from the door Fair-haired Sneezoff made his issue, To return, alas, no more.

He it is who calmly walks his Walk beneath the silver moon; He it is who boldly cocks his Detonating musketoon.

He the bland canaster puffing, As upon his round he paces, Sudden sees a ragamuffin Clambering swiftly up the glacis.

"Who goes there?" exclaims the sentry; "When the sun has once gone down No one ever makes an entry Into this here fortified town!"

[How the sentrie Sneezoff was surprised and slayn.]

Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff; But, ere any one replied, Wretched youth! he fired his piece off Started, staggered, groaned, and died!

XV.

[How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie.]

Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, "Who goes there!" But echo was frightened too much to declare. Who goes there? who goes there? Can any one swear To the number of sands sur les bords de la mer, Or the whiskers of D'Orsay Count down to a hair? As well might you tell of the sands the amount, Or number each hair in each curl of the Count, As ever proclaim the number and name Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wall came!

[Of the Cossack troops,]

Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with sword: There were thieves from the Danube and rogues from the Don; There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting Cossacks; Of all nations and regions, and tongues and religions— Jew, Christian, Idolater, Frank, Mussulman: Ah, horrible sight was Kioff that night!

[And of their manner of burning, murdering, and ravishing.]

The gates were all taken—no chance e'en of flight; And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks Went hither and thither a-hunting in packs: They slashed and they slew both Christian and Jew— Women and children, they slaughtered them too. Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats, Or the river—but oh, they had burned all the boats!

. . . . .

[How they burned the whole citie down, save the church,]

But here let us pause—for I can't pursue further This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther. Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed! His plan of attack was successful indeed! The night was his own—the town it was gone; 'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone.

[Whereof the bells began to ring.]

One building alone had escaped from the fires, Saint Sophy's fair church, with its steeples and spires, Calm, stately, and white, It stood in the light; And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,— As if nought had occurred, Might clearly be heard The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour!

XVI.

The city was defunct—silence succeeded Unto its last fierce agonizing yell; And then it was the conqueror first heeded The sound of these calm bells.

[How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church too.]

Furious towards his aides-de-camp he turns, And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) "Villains!" he fiercely cries, "the city burns, Why not the temple too? Burn me yon church, and murder all within!"

[How they stormed it, and of Hyacinth, his anger thereat.]

The Cossacks thundered at the outer door; And Father Hyacinth, who, heard the din, (And thought himself and brethren in distress, Deserted by their lady patroness) Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes outpour.

XVII.

[His prayer to the Saint Sophia.]

"And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, Thou hearest our complaints? Tell me, did ever my attachment falter To serve thy altar? Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, The last upon my lip? Was not thy name the very first that broke From me when I awoke? Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance, And mortified countenance For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight? And lo! this night, Forgetful of my prayers, and thine own promise, Thou turnest from us; Lettest the heathen enter in our city, And, without pity, Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses, Burn down their houses! Is such a breach of faith to be endured? See what a lurid Light from the insolent invader's torches Shines on your porches! E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer And hideous clamor; With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen, O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears, Alas! and here's A humble company of pious men, Like muttons in a pen, Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, Because in you they trusted. Do you not know the Calmuc chiefs desires— KILL ALL THE FRIARS! And you, of all the saints most false and fickle, Leave us in this abominable pickle."

[The statue suddenlie speaks;]

"RASH HYACINTHUS!" (Here, to the astonishment of all her backers, Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws, Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, Began), "I did not think you had been thus,— O monk of little faith! Is it because A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen Besiege our town, that you distrust in ME, then? Think'st thou that I, who in a former day Did walk across the Sea of Marmora (Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas),— That I, who skimmed the broad Borysthenes, Without so much as wetting of my toes, Am frightened at a set of men like THOSE? I have a mind to leave you to your fate: Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires."

[But is interrupted by the breaking in of the Cossacks.]

Saint Sophy was here Cut short in her words,— For at this very moment in tumbled the gate, And with a wild cheer, And a clashing of swords, Swift through the church porches, With a waving of torches, And a shriek and a yell Like the devils of hell, With pike and with axe In rushed the Cossacks,— In rushed the Cossacks, crying, "MURDER THE FRIARS!"

[Of Hyacinth, his outrageous address;]

Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc! Now, thought he, my trial beginneth; Saints, O give me courage and pluck! "Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!" Thus unto the friars he began: "Never let it be said that a monk Is not likewise a gentleman. Though the patron saint of the church, Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch, Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid!"

[And preparation for dying.]

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, He, with an air as easy and as free as If the quick-coming murder were a joke, Folded his robes around his sides, and took Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak, Like Caesar at the statue of Pompeius. The monks no leisure had about to look (Each being absorbed in his particular case), Else had they seen with what celestial race A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany face.

[Saint Sophia, her speech.]

"Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son!" Thus spoke the sainted statue. "Though you doubted me in the hour of need, And spoke of me very rude indeed, You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, And I won't be angry at you."

[She gets on the prior's shoulder straddle-back,]

The monks by-standing, one and all, Of this wondrous scene beholders, To this kind promise listened content, And couldn't contain their astonishment, When Saint Sophia moved and went Down from her wooden pedestal, And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs, Round Hyacinthus's shoulders!

[And bids him run.]

"Ho! forwards," cried Sophy, "there's no time for waiting, The Cossacks are breaking the very last gate in: See the glare of their torches shines red through the grating; We've still the back door, and two minutes or more. Now boys, now or never, we must make for the river, For we only are safe on the opposite shore. Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran,— Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man; And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through, Only scamper as fast as you can."

XVIII.

[He runneth,]

Away went the priest through the little back door, And light on his shoulders the image he bore: The honest old priest was not punished the least, Though the image was eight feet, and he measured four. Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail; And just as the last at the back door had passed, In furious hunt behold at the front The Tartars so fierce, with their terrible cheers; With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and spears, With torches a-flaming the chapel now came in. They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the psalter, They pulled the gold crucifix down from the altar; The vestments they burned with their blasphemous fires, And many cried, "Curse on them! where are the friars?" When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more, One chanced to fling open the little back door, Spied out the friars' white robes and long shadows In the moon, scampering over the meadows, And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their arsons, By crying out lustily, "THERE GO THE PARSONS!"

[And the Tartars after him.]

With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a shout, At once the whole murderous body turned out; And swift as the hawk pounces down on the pigeon, Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion.

[How the friars sweated.]

When the sound of that cheering came to the monks' hearing, O heaven! how the poor fellows panted and blew! At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to running, When the Tartars came up, what the deuce should they do? "They'll make us all martyrs, those bloodthirsty Tartars!" Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew nearer; Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights shone! "I cannot get further, this running is murther; Come carry me, some one!" cried big Father John. And even the statue grew frightened, "Od rat you!" It cried, "Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on!" On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher Appeared the fierce Russians, with sword and with fire. On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's desire,— A scramble through bramble, through mud, and through mire, The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness, Nigh done his business, fit to expire.

[And the pursuers fixed arrows into their tayles.]

Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they tugged after: The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter, And hurl'd their long spears round the poor brethren's ears, So true, that next day in the coats of each priest, Though never a wound was given, there were found A dozen arrows at least.

[How at the last gasp,]

Now the chase seemed at its worst, Prior and monks were fit to burst; Scarce you knew the which was first, Or pursuers or pursued; When the statue, by heaven's grace, Suddenly did change the face Of this interesting race, As a saint, sure, only could.

For as the jockey who at Epsom rides, When that his steed is spent and punished sore, Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides, And thereby makes him run one or two furlongs more; Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the ninth, The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper; Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks imparted, One bound he made, as gay as when he started.

[The friars won, and jumped into Borysthenes fluvius.]

Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak, The statue on his shoulders—fit to choke— One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth, And soused friars, statue, and all, slap-dash into the Dnieper!

XIX.

[And how the Russians saw]

And when the Russians, in a fiery rank, Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore; (For here the vain pursuing they forbore, Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank,) Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank, A sight they witnessed never seen before, And which, with its accompaniments glorious, Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus.

[The statue get off Hyacinth his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth his cloak.]

Plump in the Dnieper flounced the friar and friends— They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke. When suddenly his most miraculous cloak Over the billowy waves itself extends, Down from his shoulders quietly descends The venerable Sophy's statue of oak; Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample, Bids all the brethren follow its example!

[How in this manner of boat they sayled away.]

Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease; The statue 'gan a gracious conversation, And (waving to the foe a salutation) Sail'd with her wondering happy proteges Gayly adown the wide Borysthenes, Until they came unto some friendly nation. And when the heathen had at length grown shy of Their conquest, she one day came back again to Kioff.

XX.

[Finis, or the end.]

THINK NOT, O READER, THAT WE'RE LAUGHING AT YOU; YOU MAY GO TO KIOFF NOW, AND SEE THE STATUTE!



TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.

LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means— In troth, I was a happy chiel! I passed the gates of Valenciennes, I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly passed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hasten'd post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel,) But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come, To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home, How could I pawn it then at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say. I turn as white as cold boil'd veal; I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I cannot pay your bill;" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochineal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise, How can I, without cash at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot By cafes where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille? O gracious gods! it makes me sick, It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal! I tremble as I pass the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er any woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to you Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,— I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!— It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay my meal: I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best Lille.

What see I on my table stand,— A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,— "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is—it is—a ten-pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]



THE WILLOW-TREE.

Know ye the willow-tree Whose gray leaves quiver, Whispering gloomily To yon pale river; Lady, at even-tide Wander not near it, They say its branches hide A sad, lost spirit?

Once to the willow-tree A maid came fearful, Pale seemed her cheek to be, Her blue eye tearful; Soon as she saw the tree, Her step moved fleeter, No one was there—ah me! No one to meet her!

Quick beat her heart to hear The far bell's chime Toll from the chapel-tower The trysting time: But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Yet no one came!

Presently came the night, Sadly to greet her,— Moon in her silver light, Stars in their glitter; Then sank the moon away Under the billow, Still wept the maid alone— There by the willow!

Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Hour after hour went on Tolling and tolling. Long was the darkness, Lonely and stilly; Shrill came the night-wind, Piercing and chilly.

Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold, Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold. Bleak over moor and stream Looks the grey dawn, Gray, with dishevelled hair, Still stands the willow there— THE MAID IS GONE!

Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany,— Sing for poor maiden-hearts broken and weary; Domine, Domine! Sing we a litany, Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere!



THE WILLOW-TREE.

(ANOTHER VERSION).

I.

Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water: "Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter?

II.

"Rouse thee, sir constable— Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!"

III.

Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

IV.

Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping!

V.

And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony— "Lor! it's Elizar!"

VI

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth— Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. "Mother!" the loving one, Blushing, exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

VII.

"Yesterday, going to aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I FORGOT THE DOOR-KEY! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep."

VIII.

Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

IX.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the Fiddlety, Maidens of England take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key.



LYRA HIBERNICA

THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY.



THE PIMLICO PAVILION.

Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, Descind from your station and make observation Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;) And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row, Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.

There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses That round in the gardens resplindently grow, Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.

You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid You see on its summit a wondtherful show— A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.

Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.

O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.

And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow: But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-ature— He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.

There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.

In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico.

There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;) And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico.

That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather so so; For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?

O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; So heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.



THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial.

O would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wing she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which Imperors might covet, Stands in High Park Like Noah's Ark, A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant shores, Her Injians and Canajians; And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wonthrous place (His Noble Honor Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns: There's organs three, To play, d'ye see? "God save the Queen," by turrns.

There's Statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows. And ploughs like toys For little boys, And ilegant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's Droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's Cabs on Stands And Shandthry danns; There's Waggons from New York here; There's Lapland Sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And Jaunting Cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples Macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay; Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Gingerbread and Jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by MOSES.

There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!

Ah, JUDY thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.

1851.



MOLONY'S LAMENT.

O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons, And read what the peepers report? They're goan to recal the Liftinant, And shut up the Castle and Coort!

Our desolate counthry of Oireland, They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, And now having murdthered our counthry, They're goin to kill the Viceroy, Dear boy; 'Twas he was our proide and our joy!

And will we no longer behould him, Surrounding his carriage in throngs, As he weaves his cocked-hat from the windies, And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs? I liked for to see the young haroes, All shoining with sthripes and with stars, A horsing about in the Phaynix, And winking the girls in the cyars, Like Mars, A smokin' their poipes and cigyars.

Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies, Your beautiful oilids you'll ope, And there'll be an abondance of croyin' From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, When they read of this news in the peepers, Acrass the Atlantical wave, That the last of the Oirish Liftinints Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. God save The Queen—she should betther behave.

And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, Whin the Coort of imparial splindor From Doblin's sad city departs? And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers, When the deuce of a Coort there remains? And where'll be the bucks and the ladies, To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains? In sthrains, It's thus that ould Erin complains!

There's Counsellor Flanagan's leedy 'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail, And she wanted a plinty of popplin, For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail; She bought it of Misthress O'Grady, Eight shillings a yard tabinet, But now that the Coort is concluded, The divvle a yard will she get; I bet, Bedad, that she wears the old set.

There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs'; Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson, They mounted the neatest of wigs. When Spring, with its buds and its dasies, Comes out in her beauty and bloom, Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, Becase there is no dthrawing-room, For whom They'd choose the expense to ashume.

There's Alderman Toad and his lady, 'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, And the poine-apples, turbots, and lobsters, To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. But now that the quality's goin, I warnt that the aiting will stop, And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble The devil a bite or a dthrop, Or chop; And the butcher may shut up his shop.

Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, And his Lordship, the dear honest man, And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy, And Corry, the bould Connellan, And little Lord Hyde and the childthren, And the Chewter and Governess tu; And the servants are packing their boxes,— Oh, murther, but what shall I due Without you? O Meery, with ois of the blue!



MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL.

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY.

O will ye choose to hear the news, Bedad I cannot pass it o'er: I'll tell you all about the Ball To the Naypaulase Ambassador. Begor! this fete all balls does bate At which I've worn a pump, and I Must here relate the splendthor great Of th' Oriental Company.

These men of sinse dispoised expinse, To fete these black Achilleses. "We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's, And take the rooms at Willis's." With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, They hung the rooms of Willis up, And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, With roses and with lilies up.

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, So sweetly in the middle there, And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, And violins did fiddle there. And when the Coort was tired of spoort, I'd lave you, boys, to think there was A nate buffet before them set, Where lashins of good dhrink there was.

At ten before the ball-room door, His moighty Excellincy was, He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd, So gorgeous and immense he was. His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, Into the door-way followed him; And O the noise of the blackguard boys, As they hurrood and hollowed him!

The noble Chair* stud at the stair, And bade the dthrums to thump; and he Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, The welcome of his Company. O fair the girls, and rich the curls, And bright the oys you saw there, was; And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was!

This Gineral great then tuck his sate, With all the other ginerals, (Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals;) And as he there, with princely air, Recloinin on his cushion was, All round about his royal chair The squeezin and the pushin was.

O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, Such fashion and nobilitee! Just think of Tim, and fancy him Amidst the hoigh gentilitee! There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese Ministher and his lady there, And I reckonized, with much surprise, Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there;

There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, And Baroness Rehausen there, And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar Well, in her robes of gauze in there. There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, When only Mr. Pips he was), And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was.

There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife: I wondther how he could stuff her in. There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, And seemed to ask how should I go there? And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A Hay, And the Marchioness of Sligo there.

Yes, Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls, And pretty girls, was sporting there; And some beside (the rogues!) I spied, Behind the windies, coorting there. O there's one I know, bedad would show As beautiful as any there, And I'd like to hear the pipers blow, And shake a fut with Fanny there!

* James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, Timotheus Molony, late stoker on board the "Iberia," the "Lady Mary Wood," the "Tagus," and the Oriental steamships, humbly dedicate this production of my grateful muse.



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.

Ye Genii of the nation, Who look with veneration. And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore; Ye sons of General Jackson, Who thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore,

When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valiance Insthructed his battalions To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.

Since that capitulation, No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious, That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

A chief of ancient line, 'Tis William Smith O'Brine Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or more: O the Saxons can't endure To see him on the flure, And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore!

This valliant son of Mars Had been to visit Par's, That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor; And to welcome his returrn From pilgrimages furren, We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

Then we summoned to our board Young Meagher of the sword: 'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; And Mitchil of Belfast We bade to our repast, To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.

Convaniently to hould These patriots so bould, We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store; And with ornamints and banners (As becomes gintale good manners) We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.

'Twould binifit your sowls, To see the butthered rowls, The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the muffins and the crumpets, And the band of hearts and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.

Sure the Imperor of Bohay Would be proud to dthrink the tay That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour; And, since the days of Strongbow, There never was such Congo— Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it—by Shannon shore.

But Clarndon and Corry Connellan beheld this sworry With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core; And they hired a gang of ruffins To interrupt the muffins, And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.

When full of tay and cake, O'Brine began to spake; But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of a ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

As Smith O'Brine harangued, They batthered and they banged: Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore; They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower; Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

O the girls began to scrame And upset the milk and crame; And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore: And Mitchil of Belfast, 'Twas he that looked aghast, When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.

O the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt; Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? 'Tis a national disgrace: Let me go and veil me face;" And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.

"Cut down the bloody horde!" Says Meagher of the sword, "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;" But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.

Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

Then the Futt and the Dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo, But the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.



LARRY O'TOOLE.

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by— Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; I'm bail This Larry would swallow a pail.

Oh, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; He's gone to his rest, Where's there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.



THE ROSE OF FLORA.

Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.

On Brady's tower there grows a flower, It is the loveliest flower that blows,— At Castle Brady there lives a lady, (And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose.

"O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora, "I've many a rich and bright parterre; In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, But you're the fairest lady there: Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her! Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew. Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let, That darkly glistens with gentle jew! The lily's nature is not surely whiter Than Nora's neck is,—and her arrums too.

"Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora, "My dearest creature, take my advice, There is a poet, full well you know it, Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,— Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry, If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."



THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

On reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S Godless colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the following spirited lines:—

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation, Red tears of rivinge from me fatures I wash, And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation, The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH.

I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience, And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,— Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians, All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;

I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion; LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask; Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion) But children of Erin were fit for that task?

What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition? What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun, To think that our countree has ne'er a logician In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun!

On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance, And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules, I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science, And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!

O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me? I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh; And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me, I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'COSH.

There's WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate, That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe; 'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate, And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!

'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther, Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint! SAINT PATHRICK'S sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.

And good Doctor NEWMAN, that praycher unwary, 'Tis he shall preside the Academee School, And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri, To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O'TOOLE!



THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.



THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek— I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce. She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks, (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,) She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she; And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key— She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots, and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee. Mrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day. Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she?

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man, They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this yonng woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

"Mrs. Roney, O, Mrs. Roney, O, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says she.

"I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringin from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me; And I think this young man is lucky to be free."

So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent Justice demanded her plea— But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek, To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.



THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS.

My name is Pleaceman X; Last night I was in bed, A dream did me perplex, Which came into my Edd. I dreamed I sor three Waits A playing of their tune, At Pimlico Palace gates, All underneath the moon. One puffed a hold French horn, And one a hold Banjo, And one chap seedy and torn A Hirish pipe did blow. They sadly piped and played, Dexcribing of their fates; And this was what they said, Those three pore Christmas Waits:

"When this black year began, This Eighteen-forty-eight, I was a great great man, And king both vise and great, And Munseer Guizot by me did show As Minister of State.

"But Febuwerry came, And brought a rabble rout, And me and my good dame And children did turn out, And us, in spite of all our right. Sent to the right about.

"I left my native ground, I left my kin and kith, I left my royal crownd, Vich I couldn't travel vith, And without a pound came to English ground, In the name of Mr. Smith.

"Like any anchorite I've lived since I came here, I've kep myself quite quite, I've drank the small small beer, And the vater, you see, disagrees vith me And all my famly dear.

"O Tweeleries so dear, O darling Pally Royl, Vas it to finish here That I did trouble and toyl? That all my plans should break in my ands, And should on me recoil?

"My state I fenced about Vith baynicks and vith guns; My gals I portioned hout, Rich vives I got my sons; O varn't it crule to lose my rule, My money and lands at once?

"And so, vith arp and woice, Both troubled and shagreened, I hid you to rejoice, O glorious England's Queend! And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep, Because you out are cleaned.

"O Prins, so brave and stout, I stand before your gate; Pray send a trifle hout To me, your pore old Vait; For nothink could be vuss than it's been along vith us In this year Forty-eight."

"Ven this bad year began," The nex man said, seysee, "I vas a Journeyman, A taylor black and free, And my wife went out and chaired about, And my name's the bold Cuffee.

"The Queen and Halbert both I swore I would confound, I took a hawfle hoath To drag them to the ground; And sevral more with me they swore Aginst the British Crownd.

"Aginst her Pleacemen all We said we'd try our strenth; Her scarlick soldiers tall We vow'd we'd lay full lenth; And out we came, in Freedom's name, Last Aypril was the tenth.

"Three 'undred thousand snobs Came out to stop the vay, Vith sticks vith iron knobs, Or else we'd gained the day. The harmy quite kept out of sight, And so ve vent avay.

"Next day the Pleacemen came— Rewenge it was their plann— And from my good old dame They took her tailor-mann: And the hard hard beak did me bespeak To Newgit in the Wann.

"In that etrocious Cort The Jewry did agree; The Judge did me transport, To go beyond the sea: And so for life, from his dear wife They took poor old Cuffee.

"O Halbert, Appy Prince! With children round your knees, Ingraving ansum Prints, And taking hoff your hease; O think of me, the old Cuffee, Beyond the solt solt seas!

"Although I'm hold and black, My hanguish is most great; Great Prince, O call me back, And I vill be your Vait! And never no more vill break the Lor, As I did in 'Forty-eight."

The tailer thus did close (A pore old blackymore rogue), When a dismal gent uprose, And spoke with Hirish brogue: "I'm Smith O'Brine, of Royal Line, Descended from Rory Ogue.

"When great O'Connle died, That man whom all did trust, That man whom Henglish pride Beheld with such disgust, Then Erin free fixed eyes on me, And swoar I should be fust.

"'The glorious Hirish Crown,' Says she, 'it shall be thine: Long time, it's wery well known, You kep it in your line; That diadem of hemerald gem Is yours, my Smith O'Brine.

"'Too long the Saxon churl Our land encumbered hath; Arise my Prince, my Earl, And brush them from thy path: Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vith The besom of your wrath.'

"Then in my might I rose, My country I surveyed, I saw it filled with foes, I viewed them undismayed; 'Ha, ha!' says I, 'the harvest's high, I'll reap it with my blade.'

"My warriors I enrolled, They rallied round their lord; And cheafs in council old I summoned to the board— Wise Doheny and Duffy bold, And Meagher of the Sword.

"I stood on Slievenamaun, They came with pikes and bills; They gathered in the dawn, Like mist upon the hills, And rushed adown the mountain side Like twenty thousand rills.

"Their fortress we assail; Hurroo! my boys, hurroo! The bloody Saxons quail To hear the wild Shaloo: Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, O'Brine aboo, aboo!

"Our people they defied; They shot at 'em like savages, Their bloody guns they plied With sanguinary ravages: Hide, blushing Glory, hide That day among the cabbages!

"And so no more I'll say, But ask your Mussy great. And humbly sing and pray, Your Majesty's poor Wait: Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine Will blush for 'Forty-eight."



LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.*

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE).

I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street: Ran'lagh St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Towards them steps with joy; Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us, Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is A PRINCE." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then, says the wenarable Duke, "Egad, it's my buthday."

By memory backwards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born, Upon the first of May.

Perhaps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin'; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees, Most Musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she?

And I shoudn be surprize While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind.

. . . . .

To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!)

They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his Ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a Veskit red).

To see that carriage come, The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" "Your Royal Ighness, yes."

He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone; And X, although the people push, Says wary kind, "Move hon."

The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear duke, my little son and you Was born the self same day.

"The Lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here.

"That lady is as well As can expected be; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free.

"That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see, To show our honor for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be.

"That name it rhymes to fame; All Europe knows the sound: And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound.

"King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em I'll be bound.

"You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib; I name you then with all my heart The Godsire of this babe."

That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son.

And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy His little catechism.

And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X.