Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They had "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before,— The consequences true Of that awful interview, FOR I LISTENED AT THE KEYHOLE IN THE DOOR!

They played him a sonata—let me see! "Medulla oblongata"—key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel; "Oh, PRINCE," he says, says he, "IF A PRINCE INDEED YOU BE, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Ouaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK—this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!" BETH gave a dreadful shriek— But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened me full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will

They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page



Ellen McJones Aberdeen



MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN Was the son of an elderly labouring man; You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, And p'r'aps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside, Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, There wasn't a child or a woman or man Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.

No other could wake such detestable groans, With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones: All day and ill night he delighted the chiels With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighbouring maidens would gather around To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot; He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, Tho' his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.

TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a Scotchman in every sense; But this is a matter, you'll readily own, That isn't a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; Stick a skean in his hose—wear an acre of stripes— But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

CLONGLOCKETY'S pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY; The girls were amused at his singular spleen, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,

"MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad, With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad. If you really must play on that cursed affair, My goodness! play something resembling an air."

Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN— The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; For all were enraged at the insult, I ween— Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Let's show," said McCLAN, "to this Sassenach loon That the bagpipes CAN play him a regular tune. Let's see," said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat, "'IN MY COTTAGE' is easy—I'll practise at that."

He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will, For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until (You'll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare, Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze— It wandered about into several keys; It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware; But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced; He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced; And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene— Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound. An air fra' the bagpipes—beat that if ye can! Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!"

The fame of his piping spread over the land: Respectable widows proposed for his hand, And maidens came flocking to sit on the green— Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He'd stand it no longer—he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste) Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN, Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man; The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene— Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY To find them "take on" in this serious way; He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, And solaced their souls with the following words:

"Oh, maidens," said PATTISON, touching his hat, "Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I'm a very superior man, A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN."

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears," And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen— Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.



Peter The Wag



Policeman PETER forth I drag From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag, Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day, By country bumpkins green, He not unfrequently would say, "A quarter past thirteen."

If ever you by word of mouth Inquired of MISTER FORTH The way to somewhere in the South, He always sent you North. With little boys his beat along He loved to stop and play; He loved to send old ladies wrong, And teach their feet to stray.

He would in frolic moments, when Such mischief bent upon, Take Bishops up as betting men— Bid Ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew He regularly licked, And always collared people who Had had their pockets picked.

He was not naturally bad, Or viciously inclined, But from his early youth he had A waggish turn of mind. The Men of London grimly scowled With indignation wild; The Men of London gruffly growled, But PETER calmly smiled.

Against this minion of the Crown The swelling murmurs grew— From Camberwell to Kentish Town— From Rotherhithe to Kew. Still humoured he his wagsome turn, And fed in various ways The coward rage that dared to burn, But did not dare to blaze.

Still, Retribution has her day, Although her flight is slow: ONE DAY THAT CRUSHER LOST HIS WAY NEAR POLAND STREET, SOHO. The haughty boy, too proud to ask, To find his way resolved, And in the tangle of his task Got more and more involved.

The Men of London, overjoyed, Came there to jeer their foe, And flocking crowds completely cloyed The mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires Sped swiftly o'er the lea, Excursion trains from distant shires Brought myriads to see.

For weeks he trod his self-made beats Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear- Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets, And into Golden Square. But all, alas! in vain, for when He tried to learn the way Of little boys or grown-up men, They none of them would say.

Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind— Their lips would tightly curl— They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find, Thou misdirecting churl!" And, similarly, also, when He tried a foreign friend; Italians answered, "Il balen"— The French, "No comprehend."

The Russ would say with gleaming eye " Sevastopol!" and groan. The Greek said, [Greek text], [Greek text]." To wander thus for many a year That Crusher never ceased— The Men of London dropped a tear, Their anger was appeased

At length exploring gangs were sent To find poor FORTH'S remains— A handsome grant by Parliament Was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out Bold spirits volunteered, And when they swore they'd solve the doubt, The Men of London cheered.

And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear, They found him, on the floor— It leads from Richmond Buildings—near The Royalty stage-door. With brandy cold and brandy hot They plied him, starved and wet, And made him sergeant on the spot— The Men of London's pet!



Ben Allah Achmet;—Or, The Fatal Tum



I once did know a Turkish man Whom I upon a two-pair-back met, His name it was EFFENDI KHAN BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET.

A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew— I've often eaten of his bounty; The Turk and he they lived at Hooe, In Sussex, that delightful county!

I knew a nice young lady there, Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON, And though she wore another's hair, She was an interesting person.

The Turk adored the maid of Hooe (Although his harem would have shocked her). But BROWN adored that maiden too: He was a most seductive doctor.

They'd follow her where'er she'd go— A course of action most improper; She neither knew by sight, and so For neither of them cared a copper.

BROWN did not know that Turkish male, He might have been his sainted mother: The people in this simple tale Are total strangers to each other.

One day that Turk he sickened sore, And suffered agonies oppressive; He threw himself upon the floor And rolled about in pain excessive.

It made him moan, it made him groan, And almost wore him to a mummy. Why should I hesitate to own That pain was in his little tummy?

At length a doctor came, and rung (As ALLAH ACHMET had desired), Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired:

"Where is the pain that long has preyed Upon you in so sad a way, sir?" The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said: I don't exactly like to say, sir."

"Come, nonsense!" said good DOCTOR BROWN. "So this is Turkish coyness, is it? You must contrive to fight it down— Come, come, sir, please to be explicit."

The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, And coyly blushed like one half-witted, "The pain is in my little tum," He, whispering, at length admitted.

"Then take you this, and take you that— Your blood flows sluggish in its channel— You must get rid of all this fat, And wear my medicated flannel.

"You'll send for me when you're in need— My name is BROWN—your life I've saved it." "My rival!" shrieked the invalid, And drew a mighty sword and waved it:

"This to thy weazand, Christian pest!" Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it, And drove right through the doctor's chest The sabre and the hand that held it.

The blow was a decisive one, And DOCTOR BROWN grew deadly pasty, "Now see the mischief that you've done— You Turks are so extremely hasty.

"There are two DOCTOR BROWNS in Hooe— HE'S short and stout, I'M tall and wizen; You've been and run the wrong one through, That's how the error has arisen."

The accident was thus explained, Apologies were only heard now: "At my mistake I'm really pained— I am, indeed—upon my word now.

"With me, sir, you shall be interred, A mausoleum grand awaits me." "Oh, pray don't say another word, I'm sure that more than compensates me.

"But p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?" "There's room," said he, "for any number." And so they laid them down and died. In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber,



The Three Kings Of Chickeraboo



There were three niggers of Chickeraboo— PACIFICO, BANG-BANG, POPCHOP—who Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day, "Oh, let's be kings in a humble way."

The first was a highly-accomplished "bones," The next elicited banjo tones, The third was a quiet, retiring chap, Who danced an excellent break-down "flap."

"We niggers," said they, "have formed a plan By which, whenever we like, we can Extemporise kingdoms near the beach, And then we'll collar a kingdom each.

"Three casks, from somebody else's stores, Shall represent our island shores, Their sides the ocean wide shall lave, Their heads just topping the briny wave.

"Great Britain's navy scours the sea, And everywhere her ships they be; She'll recognise our rank, perhaps, When she discovers we're Royal Chaps.

"If to her skirts you want to cling, It's quite sufficient that you're a king; She does not push inquiry far To learn what sort of king you are."

A ship of several thousand tons, And mounting seventy-something guns, Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue, Discovering kings and countries new.

The brave REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP, Commanding that magnificent ship, Perceived one day, his glasses through, The kings that came from Chickeraboo.

"Dear eyes!" said ADMIRAL PIP, "I see Three flourishing islands on our lee. And, bless me! most remarkable thing! On every island stands a king!

"Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried, "And over the dancing waves I'll glide; That low obeisance I may do To those three kings of Chickeraboo!"

The Admiral pulled to the islands three; The kings saluted him graciousLEE. The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm, Unrolled a printed Alliance form.

"Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray— I come in a friendly kind of way— I come, if you please, with the best intents, And QUEEN VICTORIA'S compliments."

The kings were pleased as they well could be; The most retiring of the three, In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent With a banjo-bones accompaniment.

The great REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP Embarked on board his jolly big ship, Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore, And off he sailed to his native shore.

ADMIRAL PIP directly went To the Lord at the head of the Government, Who made him, by a stroke of a quill, BARON DE PIPPE, OF PIPPETONNEVILLE.

The College of Heralds permission yield That he should quarter upon his shield Three islands, vert, on a field of blue, With the pregnant motto "Chickeraboo."

Ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too, Are going to sail for Chickeraboo. And, see, on the good ship's crowded deck, A bishop, who's going out there on spec.

And let us all hope that blissful things May come of alliance with darky kings, And, may we never, whatever we do, Declare a war with Chickeraboo!



Joe Golightly—Or, The First Lord's Daughter



A tar, but poorly prized, Long, shambling, and unsightly, Thrashed, bullied, and despised, Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.

He bore a workhouse brand; No Pa or Ma had claimed him, The Beadle found him, and The Board of Guardians named him.

P'r'aps some Princess's son— A beggar p'r'aps his mother. HE rather thought the one, I rather think the other.

He liked his ship at sea, He loved the salt sea-water, He worshipped junk, and he Adored the First Lord's daughter.

The First Lord's daughter, proud, Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly; She sneered at Barts. aloud, And spurned poor Joe Golightly.

Whene'er he sailed afar Upon a Channel cruise, he Unpacked his light guitar And sang this ballad (Boosey):

Ballad

The moon is on the sea, Willow! The wind blows towards the lee, Willow! But though I sigh and sob and cry, No Lady Jane for me, Willow!

She says, "'Twere folly quite, Willow! For me to wed a wight, Willow! Whose lot is cast before the mast"; And possibly she's right, Willow!

His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE), He gave him many a rating, And almost lost his voice From thus expostulating:

"Lay aft, you lubber, do! What's come to that young man, JOE? Belay!—'vast heaving! you! Do kindly stop that banjo!

"I wish, I do—O lor'!— You'd shipped aboard a trader: ARE you a sailor or A negro serenader?"

But still the stricken lad, Aloft or on his pillow, Howled forth in accents sad His aggravating "Willow!"

Stern love of duty bad Been JOYCE'S chiefest beauty; Says he, "I love that lad, But duty, damme! duty!

"Twelve months' black-hole, I say, Where daylight never flashes; And always twice a day A good six dozen lashes!"

But JOSEPH had a mate, A sailor stout and lusty, A man of low estate, But singularly trusty.

Says he, "Cheer hup, young JOE! I'll tell you what I'm arter— To that Fust Lord I'll go And ax him for his darter.

"To that Fust Lord I'll go And say you love her dearly." And JOE said (weeping low), "I wish you would, sincerely!"

That sailor to that Lord Went, soon as he had landed, And of his own accord An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman's roll, "My Captain (wot's a Tartar) Guv JOE twelve months' black-hole, For lovering your darter.

"He loves MISS LADY JANE (I own she is his betters), But if you'll jine them twain, They'll free him from his fetters.

"And if so be as how You'll let her come aboard ship, I'll take her with me now." "Get out!" remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired To JOE upon the billow, And told him how he'd fared. JOE only whispered, "Willow!"

And for that dreadful crime (Young sailors, learn to shun it) He's working out his time; In six months he'll have done it.



To The Terrestrial Globe. By A Miserable Wretch



Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space Roll on! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never YOU mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due; It's true my prospects all look blue— But don't let that unsettle you! Never YOU mind! Roll on!

[It rolls on.



Gentle Alice Brown



It was a robber's daughter, and her name was ALICE BROWN, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As ALICE was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).

But ALICE was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," ALICE said, "'t would grieve you, would it not, To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear: It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks— Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap— Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be— I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"

"For shame!" said FATHER PAUL, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors: I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of FATHER PAUL?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to ROBBER BROWN— To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good ROBBER BROWN he muffled up his anger pretty well: He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do— A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And MRS. BROWN dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little ALICE grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good ROBBER BROWN bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

THE END