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 enérgy

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 élite,

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 beaufét;

And, Prior, have the venison up--it's capital rechauffé.

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 counténance

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 protégés

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 Quiévrain, 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 cafés 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-áture--

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 fête 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 fête 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.

* The birth of Prince Arthur.

THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS.

Galliant gents and lovely ladies,

List a tail vich late befel,

Vich I heard it, bein on duty,

At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,

Vere the little children sings:

(Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies

Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid,

If you particklarly ask me where--

Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy

Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.

Vich her name was Eliza Davis,

And she went to fetch the beer:

In the street she met a party

As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor,

For to judge him by his look:

Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies,

Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes

Of this hinnocent young gal--

"Pray," saysee, "excuse my freedom,

You're so like my Sister Sal!

"You're so like my Sister Sally,

Both in valk and face and size,

Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers,

It brings tears into my heyes!"

"I'm a mate on board a wessel,

I'm a sailor bold and true;

Shiver up my poor old timbers,

Let me be a mate for you!

"What's your name, my beauty, tell me;"

And she faintly hansers, "Lore,

Sir, my name's Eliza Davis,

And I live at tventy-four."

Hoftimes came this British seaman,

This deluded gal to meet;

And at tventy-four was welcome,

Tventy-four in Guilford Street.

And Eliza told her Master

(Kinder they than Missuses are),

How in marridge he had ast her,

Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him,

(Vich vas all his hartful plan),

And she told how Charley Thompson

Reely vas a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in

Many years of union sweet,

Vith a gent she met promiskous,

Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them,

And she thought that soon their bands

Vould be published at the Fondlin,

Hand the clergymen jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers,

(Vich her master let some rooms),

Likevise vere they kep their things, and

Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson

Came on Sundy veek to see her;

And he sent Eliza Davis

Hout to fetch a pint of beer.

Hand while pore Eliza vent to

Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin,

This etrocious Charley Thompson

Let his wile accomplish him.

To the lodgers, their apartments,

This abandingd female goes,

Prigs their shirts and umberellas;

Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes.

Vile the scoundrel Charley Thompson,

Lest his wictim should escape,

Hocust her vith rum and vater,

Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em

Vich these raskles little sore;

Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord

Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden,

Just afore he vent to sup;

And on looking up he sor the

Lodgers' vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;

Something's going wrong, he said;

And he caught the vicked voman

Underneath the lodgers' bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman,

Vich vas passing on his beat;

Like a true and galliant feller,

Hup and down in Guilford Street.

And that Pleaseman able-bodied

Took this voman to the cell;

To the cell vere she was quodded,

In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson

Boulted like a miscrant base,

Presently another Pleaseman

Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles

Tuesday last came up for doom;

By the beak they was committed,

Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davis,

Simple gurl of tventy-four,

SHE I ope, vill never listen

In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art,

(Vich most every gurl expex,)

Let her take a jolly pleaseman;

Vich his name peraps is--X.

DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS.

Special Jurymen of England! who admire your country's laws,

And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's applause;

Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a cause

Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes, this day week as ever was.

Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in grief,

(Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the Baron Chief,)

Comes a British man and husband--asking of the law relief;

For his wife was stolen from him--he'd have vengeance on the thief.

Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which his life was

crowned,

Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite profound.

And he comes before twelve Britons, men for sense and truth renowned,

To award him for his damage, twenty hundred sterling pound.

He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does appear,

Asking damage of the villain who seduced his lady dear:

But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt was all too clear,

And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the plaintiff rather queer?

First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen her daughter cry

But a fortnight after marriage: early times for piping eye.

Six months after, things were worse, and the piping eye was black,

And this gallant British husband caned his wife upon the back.

Three months after they were married, husband pushed her to the door,

Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted her no more.

As she would not go, why HE went: thrice he left his lady dear;

Left her, too, without a penny, for more than a quarter of a year.

Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well indeed,

She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make her lip to bleed;

If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he said:

Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his lady's head.

Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the jury note

How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by the throat,

How he cursed her and abused her, beating her into a fit,

Till the pitying next-door neighbors crossed the wall and witnessed it.

Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a butcher dwelt;

Mrs. Owers's foolish heart towards this erring dame did melt;

(Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not developed in her),

But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers supplied her dinner--

God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful to this sinner!

Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a wretched life,

Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup at his wife;

He went out to balls and pleasures, and never once, in ten months'

space,

Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was the defendant's

case.

Pollock, C.B., charged the Jury; said the woman's guilt was clear:

That was not the point, however, which the Jury came to hear;

But the damage to determine which, as it should true appear,

This most tender-hearted husband, who so used his lady dear--

Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left her starving,

year by year,

Flung her from him, parted from her, wrung her neck, and boxed her

ear--

What the reasonable damage this afflicted man could claim,

By the loss of the affections of this guilty graceless dame?

Then the honest British Twelve, to each other turning round,

Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom most profound:

And towards his Lordship looking, spoke the foreman wise and sound;--

"My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, damages two hundred

pound."

So, God bless the Special Jury! pride and joy of English ground,

And the happy land of England, where true justice does abound!

British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this verdict proper:

If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a right to whop her.

Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her,

You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her:

You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned;

And if after this you lose her,--why, you're paid two hundred pound.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

There's in the Vest a city pleasant

To vich King Bladud gev his name,

And in that city there's a Crescent

Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame.

Although that galliant knight is oldish,

Although Sir John as gray, gray air,

Hage has not made his busum coldish,

His Art still beats tewodds the Fair!

'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid,

Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines,

To Paris towne his phootsteps bended

In sutch of gayer folks and seans.

His and was free, his means was easy,

A nobler, finer gent than he

Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy,

Or paced the Roo de Rivolee.

A brougham and pair Sir John prowided,

In which abroad he loved to ride;

But ar! he most of all enjyed it,

When some one helse was sittin' inside!

That "some one helse" a lovely dame was

Dear ladies you will heasy tell--

Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was,

A noble title, ard to spell.

This faymus Countess ad a daughter

Of lovely form and tender art;

A nobleman in marridge sought her,

By name the Baron of Saint Bart.

Their pashn touched the noble Sir John,

It was so pewer and profound;

Lady Grabrowski he did urge on

With Hyming's wreeth their loves to crownd.

"O, come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent,"

Says kind Sir John, "and live with me;

The living there's uncommon pleasant--

I'm sure you'll find the hair agree.

"O, come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski,

And bring your charming girl," sezee;

"The Barring here shall have the ouse-key,

Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea.

"And when they've passed an appy winter,

Their opes and loves no more we'll bar;

The marridge-vow they'll enter inter,

And I at church will be their Par."

To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent,

Where good Sir John he did provide

No end of teas and balls incessant,

And hosses both to drive and ride.

He was so Ospitably busy,

When Miss was late, he'd make so bold

Upstairs to call out, "Missy, Missy,

Come down, the coffy's getting cold!"

But O! 'tis sadd to think such bounties

Should meet with such return as this;

O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess

Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss!

He married you at Bath's fair Habby,

Saint Bart he treated like a son--

And wasn't it uncommon shabby

To do what you have went and done!

My trembling And amost refewses

To write the charge which Sir John swore,

Of which the Countess he ecuses,

Her daughter and her son-in-lore.

My Mews quite blushes as she sings of

The fatle charge which now I quote:

He says Miss took his two best rings off,

And pawned 'em for a tenpun note.

"Is this the child of honest parince,

To make away with folks' best things?

Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins,

To go and prig a gentleman's rings?"

Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on,

And to rewenge his injured cause,

He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton,

Last Vensday veek as ever waws.

If guiltless, how she have been slandered!

If guilty, wengeance will not fail:

Meanwhile the lady is remanded

And gev three hundred pouns in bail.

JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS.

A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT.

One sees in Viteall Yard,

Vere pleacemen do resort,

A wenerable hinstitute,

'Tis call'd the Pallis Court.

A gent as got his i on it,

I think 'twill make some sport.

The natur of this Court

My hindignation riles:

A few fat legal spiders

Here set & spin their viles;

To rob the town theyr privlege is,

In a hayrea of twelve miles.

The Judge of this year Court

Is a mellitary beak,

He knows no more of Lor

Than praps he does of Greek,

And prowides hisself a deputy

Because he cannot speak.

Four counsel in this Court--

Misnamed of Justice--sits;

These lawyers owes their places to

Their money, not their wits;

And there's six attornies under them,

As here their living gits.

These lawyers, six and four,

Was a livin at their ease,

A sendin of their writs abowt,

And droring in the fees,

When their erose a cirkimstance

As is like to make a breeze.

It now is some monce since,

A gent both good and trew

Possest an ansum oss vith vich

He didn know what to do:

Peraps he did not like the oss;

Peraps he was a scru.

This gentleman his oss

At Tattersall's did lodge;

There came a wulgar oss-dealer,

This gentleman's name did fodge,

And took the oss from Tattersall's

Wasn that a artful dodge?

One day this gentleman's groom

This willain did spy out,

A mounted on this oss

A ridin him about;

"Get out of that there oss, you rogue,"

Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd

To find himself so pinn'd;

The oss began to whinny,

The honest gloom he grinn'd;

And the raskle thief got off the oss

And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy

The master did regard

His dearly bluvd lost oss again

Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good

Of whomb I makes these rhymes?

His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire;

And if I'd committed crimes,

Good Lord I wouldn't ave that mann

Attack me in the Times!

Now shortly after the groomb

His master's oss did take up,

There came a livery-man

This gentleman to wake up;

And he handed in a little bill,

Which hangered Mr. Jacob.

For two pound seventeen

This livery-man eplied,

For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss,

Which the thief had took to ride.

"Do you see anythink green in me?"

Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews

My oss away to robb,

And goes tick at your Mews

For seven-and-fifty bobb,

Shall I be call'd to pay?--It is

A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut

The conwasation short;

The livery-man went ome,

Detummingd to ave sport,

And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire,

Into the Pallis Court.

Pore Jacob went to Court,

A Counsel for to fix,

And choose a barrister out of the four,

An attorney of the six:

And there he sor these men of Lor,

And watch'd 'em at their tricks.

The dreadful day of trile

In the Pallis Court did come;

The lawyers said their say,

The Judge look'd wery glum,

And then the British Jury cast

Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O a weary day was that

For Jacob to go through;

The debt was two seventeen

(Which he no mor owed than you),

And then there was the plaintives costs,

Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own,

Which the lawyers they did fix

At the wery moderit figgar

Of ten pound one and six.

Now Evins bless the Pallis Court,

And all its bold ver-dicks!

I cannot settingly tell

If Jacob swaw and cust,

At aving for to pay this sumb;

But I should think he must,

And av drawn a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.

With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move

My pitty most profound.

A most emusing sport

You thought it, I'll be bound,

To saddle hup a three-pound debt,

With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you

To grind the honest pore,

To pay their just or unjust debts

With eight hundred per cent. for Lor;

Make haste and get your costes in,

They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn,

Thou shameless and Unjust;

Thou Swindle, picking pockets in

The name of Truth august:

Come down, thou hoary blasphemy,

For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium,

And ply your iron pen,

And rise up, Sir John Jervis,

And shut me up that den;

That sty for fattening lawyers in,

On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE SPECULATORS.

The night was stormy and dark,

The town was shut up in sleep:

Only those were abroad who were out on a lark,

Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street,

The wind did sing and blow;

I could hear the policeman's feet

Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man

In the midst of all the wet;

He stood with his 'tato-can

In the lonely Hay-market.

Two gents of dismal mien,

And dank and greasy rags,

Came out of a shop for gin,

Swaggering over the flags:

Swaggering over the stones,

These shabby bucks did walk;

And I went and followed those seedy ones,

And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake?

Could I believe my ears?

Those dismal beggars spake

Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more:

Says one--"Good friend of mine,

How many shares have you wrote for,

In the Diddlesex Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim,

"But they wouldn't give me one;"

His comrade straight rebuked him

For the folly he had done:

"O Jim, you are unawares

Of the ways of this bad town;

I always write for five hundred shares,

And THEN they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares,"

Says Jim, "for all your boast;"

"I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where

Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay

That first instalment up;

But here's 'taters smoking hot--I say,

Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast

The while they did regale,

I drew each ragged capitalist

Down on my left thumbnail.

Their talk did me perplex,

All night I tumbled and tost,

And thought of railroad specs,

And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere,"

I said, "and the world's advance;

Bless every railroad share

In Italy, Ireland, France;

For never a beggar need now despair,

And every rogue has a chance."

A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD

OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE.

(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.)

Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear,

'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear;

'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow,

When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know.

The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt,

I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent:

It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow,

And our holy father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No NO.

And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no

longer,

Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger,

And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss'd the POPE his

toe,

And hung his neck with chains at St. Peter's Vinculo.

And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing

grand,

And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican;

And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys

blow.

And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio.

And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and

glory,

Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory;

And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go

Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo.

Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard,

There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard.

And ever since the world began it was ordained so,

That there should always barbers he wheresumever beards do grow.

And as it always has been so since the world it did begin,

The POPE, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin;

And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow,

There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO.

There comes a certing gintlemen with razier, soap, and lather,

A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father.

And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show,

Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NONO.

Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate,

Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate;

And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow

Against our gentle Father, the Holy POPE PIO.

Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heard or read of;

What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope's

head off!

And to the kind POPE'S Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go,

And proposed him to decapitate the innocent PIO.

"What hever can be easier," said this Clerk--this Man of Sin,

"When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin,

Than just to give the razier a little slip--just so?--

And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent PIO!"

The wicked conversation it chanced was overerd

By an Italian lady; she heard it every word:

Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go

With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo.

When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege,

As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege.

"O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so),

"They're going for to massyker our Holy POPE PIO.

"The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark,

His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark!

And I would recommend you in prison for to throw

These villians would esassinate the Holy POPE PIO?

"And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd

I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound;

Because I was a Marchioness many years ago,

Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo."

That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man

Wouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan--

And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go

That was plotting of the murder of the good PIO NONO.

Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home,

How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome?

So let us drink confusion to LORD JOHN and LORD MINTO,

And a health unto His Eminence, and good PIO NONO.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.

Come all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail,

It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail,

By the Heastern Counties' Railway (vich the shares I don't desire),

From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.

A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed

With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd,

And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchest-

er, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.

She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step,

And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep;

The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty,

Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said,

Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead.

Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust,

And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.

A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail,

To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail;

Saysee you look unwell, Ma'am, I'll elp you if I can,

And you may tell your ease to me, for I'm a meddicle man.

"Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale,

Because I ain't accustom'd to travelling on the Rale;

I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:"

And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.

So in the conwersation the journey they beguiled,

Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady and the child,

Till the warious stations along the line was passed,

For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.

When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped the train,

This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again.

"Thank you, Sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear;

My carridge and my osses is probibbly come here.

"Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?"

The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he.

Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently,

Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.

With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it,

Then she gave the Doctor the child--wery kind he nust it:

Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from,

Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.

Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays,

The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze;

Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby,

The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby.

There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more,

But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore:

Never, never back again did that lady come

To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his Thum!

What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus,

When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss?

Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild,

And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.

That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap,

And made it very comfortable by giving it some pap;

And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found?

A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little gownd!

Also in its little close, was a note which did conwey

That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way

And for his Headucation they reglarly would pay,

And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the child one day,

If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say,

Per adwertisement in The Times where the baby lay.

Pity of this bayy many people took,

It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look;

And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see

Any kind lady as would do as much for me);

And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd,

I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound--

There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say,

She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.

While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair,

Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there,

Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire,

To send the little Infant back to Devonshire.

Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man,

Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran;

Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak,

That takes his seat in Worship Street, four times a week.

"O Justice!" says the Doctor, "instrugt me what to do.

I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you;

My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills,

(There they are in Suffolk without their drafts and pills!)

"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose

Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note, and the close,

And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please,

And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."

Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk,

"This year application does me much perplesk;

What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby

In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."

The Doctor from his worship sadly did depart--

He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart

To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the law allows,

To the tender mussies of the Union House.

Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's knee,

Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he!

Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she;

And do not take unkindly this little word of me:

Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!

THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL.

"WESTMINSTER POLICE COURT.--Policeman X brought a paper of doggerel

verses to the MAGISTRATE, which had been thrust into his hands, X

said, by an Italian boy, who ran away immediately afterwards.

"The MAGISTRATE, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and

said he did not think they were written by an Italian.

"X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in Court last week,

and which frightened so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed,

was also not of Italian origin."

O SIGNOR BRODERIP, you are a wickid ole man,

You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you can:

How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek

To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary Beek?

Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers,

Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortocrat of hall the Rushers,

Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to know,

Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go.

O you vickid HEROD without any pity!

London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city.

Sweet SAINT CICILY who first taught horgin-pipes to blow,

Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggerywates us so!

Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind,

Brings us over to London here our horgins for to grind;

Sends us out vith little vite mice and guinea-pigs also

A popping of the Veasel and a Jumpin of JIM CROW.

And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our turn

We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money we earn,

Because that they vood vop up as wery wel we know

Unless we brought our hurnings back to them as loves us so.

O MR. BRODERIP! wery much I'm surprise,

Ven you take your valks abroad where can be your eyes?

If a Beak had a heart then you'd compryend

Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man's friend.

Don't you see the shildren in the droring-rooms

Clapping of their little ands when they year our toons?

On their mothers' bussums don't you see the babbies crow

And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apence throw?

Don't you see the ousemaids (pooty POLLIES and MARIES),

Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the hairies?

Then they come out vith a slice o' cole puddn or a bit o' bacon or so

And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore we go.

Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport

When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in the Court?

To these little paupers who can never pay

Surely all good horgin-boys, for GOD'S love, will play.

Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting B--k

(Vich I von't be pussonal and therefore vil not speak),

That flings their parler-vinders hup von ve begin to play

And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent way,

Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout Poleece

Let em send out JOHN to us vith six-pence or a shillin apiece.

Then like good young horgin-boys avay from there we'll go,

Blessing sweet SAINT CICILY that taught our pipes to blow.

LITTLE BILLEE.*

Air--"Il y avait un petit navire."

There were three sailors of Bristol city

Who took a boat and went to sea.

But first with beef and captain's biscuits

And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,

And the youngest he was little Billee.

Now when they got as far as the Equator

They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

"I am extremely hungaree."

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,

"We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

"With one another we shouldn't agree!

There's little Bill, he's young and tender,

We're old and tough, so let's eat he.

"Oh! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you,

So undo the button of your chemie."

When Bill received this information

He used his pocket handkerchie.

"First let me say my catechism,

Which my poor mamy taught to me."

"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,

While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.

So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast,

And down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment

When up he jumps. "There's land I see:

"Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee:

There's the British flag a riding at anchor,

With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;

But as for little Bill he made him

The Captain of a Seventy-three.

* As different versions of this popular song have been set to music

and sung, no apology is needed for the insertion in these pages of

what is considered to be the correct version.

THE END OF THE PLAY.

The play is done; the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell:

A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.

It is an irksome word and task;

And, when he's laughed and said his say,

He shows, as he removes the mask,

A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,

Let's close it with a parting rhyme,

And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As fits the merry Christmas time.*

On life's wide scene you, too, have parts,

That Fate ere long shall bid you play;

Good night! with honest gentle hearts

A kindly greeting go alway!

Goodnight--I'd say, the griefs, the joys,

Just hinted in this mimic page,

The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age.

I'd say, your woes were not less keen,

Your hopes more vain than those of men;

Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say, we suffer and we strive,

Not less nor more as men, than boys;

With grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys.

And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray,

Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth

May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say, how fate may change and shift;

The prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift.

The strong may yield, the good may fall,

The great man be a vulgar clown,

The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave!

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,

Be weeping at her darling's grave?**

We bow to Heaven that will'd it so,

That darkly rules the fate of all,

That sends the respite or the blow,

That's free to give, or to recall.

This crowns his feast with wine and wit:

Who brought him to that mirth and state?

His betters, see, below him sit,

Or hunger hopeless at the gate.

Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel

To spurn the rags of Lazarus?

Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.

So each shall mourn, in life's advance,

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,

And longing passion unfulfilled.

Amen! whatever fate be sent,

Pray God the heart may kindly glow,

Although the head with cares be bent,

And whitened with the winter snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill,

Let young and old accept their part,

And bow before the Awful Will,

And bear it with an honest heart,

Who misses or who wins the prize.

Go, lose or conquer as you can;

But if you fail, or if you rise,

Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays);

The sacred chorus first was sung

Upon the first of Christmas days:

The shepherds heard it overhead--

The joyful angels raised it then:

Glory to Heaven on high, it said,

And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth;

I lay the weary pen aside,

And wish you health, and love, and mirth,

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.

As fits the holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol still--

Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,

To men of gentle will.

* These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas Book (1848-

9), "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends."

** C.B ob. 29th November, 1848. aet. 42.

VANITAS VANITATUM.

How spake of old the Royal Seer?

(His text is one I love to treat on.)

This life of ours he said is sheer

Mataiotes Mataioteton.

O Student of this gilded Book,

Declare, while musing on its pages,

If truer words were ever spoke

By ancient, or by modern sages!

The various authors' names but note,*

French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans:

And in the volume polyglot,

Sure you may read a hundred sermons!

What histories of life are here,

More wild than all romancers' stories;

What wondrous transformations queer,

What homilies on human glories!

What theme for sorrow or for scorn!

What chronicle of Fate's surprises--

Of adverse fortune nobly borne,

Of chances, changes, ruins, rises!

Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke,

How strange a record here is written!

Of honors, dealt as if in joke;

Of brave desert unkindly smitten.

How low men were, and how they rise!

How high they were, and how they tumble!

O vanity of vanities!

O laughable, pathetic jumble!

Here between honest Janin's joke

And his Turk Excellency's firman,

I write my name upon the book:

I write my name--and end my sermon.

----------

O Vanity of vanities!

How wayward the decrees of Fate are;

How very weak the very wise,

How very small the very great are!

What mean these stale moralities,

Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble?

Why rail against the great and wise,

And tire us with your ceaseless grumble?

Pray choose us out another text,

O man morose and narrow-minded!

Come turn the page--I read the next,

And then the next, and still I find it.

Read here how Wealth aside was thrust,

And Folly set in place exalted;

How Princes footed in the dust,

While lackeys in the saddle vaulted.

Though thrice a thousand years are past,

Since David's son, the sad and splendid,

The weary King Ecclesiast,

Upon his awful tablets penned it,--

Methinks the text is never stale,

And life is every day renewing

Fresh comments on the old old tale

Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.

Hark to the Preacher, preaching still

He lifts his voice and cries his sermon,

Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill,

As yonder on the Mount of Hermon;

For you and me to heart to take

(O dear beloved brother readers)

To-day as when the good King spake

Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars.

* Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the Turkish

Ambassador, in Madame de R----'s album, containing the autographs

of kings, princes, poets, marshals, musicians, diplomatists,

statesmen, artists, and men of letters of all nations.