Chapter XV: Part 48: Songs by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, and various old English (15)

Bright chandeliers the room adorn,
Each thing’s arranged with care,
And gayest smiles and silks are worn
This night to catch the Heir.
With a heigho! Letty!
Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty,
To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r――
To-night we hunt the Heir!

Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore,
We read it in your face;
If you’ll propose to one――no more
You’ll find us give you chase.
With a sigh from Letty!
Or forward, too forward Miss Betty!
No more we’ll hunt the He-e-e-ir――
No more we’ll hunt the Heir!

From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848_.

――――

A HUNTING SONG.
(_Dedicated to the Jamaica Committee._)

Our chance at EYRE we claim this dawn――
Our witnesses are sworn――
A new indictment we have drawn,
Despite the public’s scorn.
Dogged hither by a yelping throng,
The Governor draws nigh――
So raise the burden of our song――
“Peccavi” he must cry!
_Chorus_――With a hey, oh, levy
Subscriptions our victim to chevy.
Law charges heavy!
(_Here comes a yelping of hounds._)
“Peccavi” he must cry.

* * * * *

Despair! Our Christian sport is o’er,
The judge has spoilt our case;
“A colony preserved” no more
Can we pronounce disgrace.
The jury no true bill returns,――
To cheer the public dare!
No gratitude our labour earns――
We can’t hunt down our (H)EYRE.
_Chorus._――With a heigho, heavy
The legal expenses to levy!
Vain our chevy!
(_Here the yelping grows faint_),
“Peccavimus,” we cry!

_Fun._ June 13, 1868.

――――

HUMANITY HUNTING SONG.

“OPENING MEET OF THE WINDSOR GARRISON DRAG-HOUNDS.――On Saturday, in miserably wet weather, this pack of draghounds commenced their hunting season…. The hounds will be hunted twice a week (every Wednesday and Saturday) during the season.”――_Morning Paper._

We’re going to have a glorious run,
This murk and mizzling morn.
Our Hunt inferior is to none,
Except not even the Quorn.
A substitute will, scent as strong
As Reynard’s own, supply.
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!

_Chorus_――
With a hey, ho, chivy;
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Excuse the burden of my song;
This day a Drag must die!

Because, although a herring red
May, like a fox, be tracked,
The Drag is absolutely dead
In point of literal fact.
Yet hounds and horses after go,
With huntsmen’s horns, and cry
Of “Yoicks!” and shout of “Tallyho!”
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.

A Drag’s as good to ride behind
As ever a fox’s tail,
Well drawn about, with turn and wind,
O’er many a hill and dale.
Fence, hedgerow, palings, turnpike gate,
The rider’s pluck will try,
As much as though ’twere true to state,
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.

Each man as much risks life or limb
As when a fox is slain;
The sport is all the same to him,
And we give no animal pain.
Humane excitement whilst we seek,
No victim in our eye;
Except as now, when so to speak,
This day a Drag must die!
_Chorus_――With a hey, ho, &c.

_Note._――WILLIAM COBBETT, in one of his charming works, tells a delightful story of the revenge he, when a young clodhopper, once took of a huntsman who had fetched him a cut of his whip; in repayment for which injury Cobbett went and trailed a red herring over the hunting-ground, and then, mounted on a hill-top commanding a view all round, stood enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the hounds thrown off the scent, and the fox-hunt turned into a drag-hunt, to his enemy’s vexation.

_Punch._ November 5, 1881.

――――:o:――――

OLD KING COAL.
(_Air_: “OLD KING COLE.”)

I.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“I’ll move the world,” quoth he;
“My England’s high, and rich, and great,
But greater she shall be!”
And he call’d for the pick, and he call’d for the spade,
And he call’d for his miners bold;
“And it’s dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth;
You’ll find my treasures better worth
Than mines of Indian gold!”

II.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
Yet not content was he;
And he said, “I’ve found what I’ve desired,
Though ’tis but one of three.”
And he call’d for water, he call’d for fire,
For smiths and workmen true:
“Come, build me engines great and strong;
We’ll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long;
We’ll try what Steam can do.”

III.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“’Tis fairly done,” quoth he,
When he saw the myriad wheels at work
O’er all the land and sea.
They spared the bones and strength of men,
They hammer’d, wove, and spun;
There was nought too great, too mean, or small,
The giant STEAM had power for all;――
His task was never done.

IV.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
Quoth he, “We travel slow;
I should like to roam the wide world round,
As fast as the wild winds blow.”
And he call’d for his skilful engineers;
And soon through hills and vales,
O’er rivers wide, through tunnels vast,
The flying trains like lightning pass’d,
On the ribs of the mighty Rails.

V.

Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul is he;
May he never fail in the land we love,
Who has made us great and free!
While his miners mine, and his engines work,
Through all our happy land,
We shall flourish fair in the morning light,
And our name and our fame, and our might and our right,
In the front of the world shall stand!

CHARLES MACKAY.

――――

QUEEN COLE.

Oh! little Queen Cole was as nice a little soul
As any in this company;
And she loved the King more than anything
Else――but a green monkey.
So, when Old King Cole did call for his bowl,――
As in truth, very oft did he,――
If he’d send away the fellows, to make merry in the cellars,
Why, a sly little drop took she,
Why, a sly, &c.

But little Queen Cole (and it’s true upon my soul,
Strange though the fact may be)
She scolded the King like anything,
For smoking of tobaccy!
Though of angels the type, she couldn’t bear a pipe,
She hated it mortally;
And she’d make such a rout as put the King’s pipe out,
Oh! most confoundedly.
Oh! most confoundedly.

Now, little Queen Cole had a musical soul,
So she sent for her pianists three;
When Mr. Chopin he soon came a-hopping,
Such a very nimble chap was he.
While Thalberg and Liszt, each with ten-finger’d fist,
As no mortal e’er did see;
And never till now was there heard such a row
On one poor piano-for_te_.
On one poor piano-for_te_.

Also, little Queen Cole had a singing soul,
And she sent for her singers three,
And she liked the notes from the musical throats
Of Grisi and Persiani.
But, the third one, to wit, she said could not sing a bit,
’Cause his name didn’t end in “I.”
Some fellow from town, some Jones or Brown;
So very soon snubb’d was he.
Oh, very soon, &c.

This was all very well, but I must also tell
That she hated the secretary;
For he always would look in the royal cash-book;
Such an aggravating chap was he.
“Vot’s this?” says he, “Fippence do I see, for taters
Three pounds; bless me!
Vy, taters, I’ll be bound, may be had three pound
Tuppence-ha’penny!”
“Ah! tuppence-ha’penny!”

Well, little Queen Cole, as time did roll,
Fulfilled her destiny;
That is to say, in a genteel kind of way,
She had a large family.
So that Old King Cole felt anxious in his soul,
And with a deep sigh said he,
“Drat the people, if I ax ’em, why they won’t let me tax ’em,
For to fill my treasury.”
“For to fill, &c.”

But little Queen Cole was as coaxing a little soul,
As you’d find on a summer’s day;
So said she, “If I axes, now I know they’ll pay the taxes.”
“We’ll be smother’d if we do!” said they.
“For ve werry much winces at this long list of princes,
Vich is longer than it ought for to be!”
But the Queen, too proud to wrangle, oh! she set up a mangle,
And her subjects they went tax free.
And her subjects, &c.

But the people grew ashamed, when they heard the story named,
How she mangled for the whole family;
So they swore “Blood and ’ounds,” and they fumbled out the
“browns,”
Just in time for their old country.
For a very old foe saw the royal coffer low,
And a very fierce attack made he;
And it would have served them right (they were shabby fellows
quite),
If he’d gain’d the victory.
If he’d gained, &c.

From _Sharp’s Vauxhall Comic Song Book_. No date.

――――

OLD KING COAL.

Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he;
And it went in the bottle, and it went in the bowl,
In green fat, callipash, callipee.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame! said the people,
What a wrong that this should be!
And there’s none whate’er that can compare
To the sons of gluttony.

Old King Coal paid a very high toll,
And a very high toll paid he:
And the City of London eat up the whole,
By consent of the Powers that be.
This won’t do, this won’t do, this won’t do! says the people;
This must not, shall not be;
And we now declare we’ll no longer bear
Such a monstrous robbery!

_Punch._ November 29, 1851.

(Notwithstanding Mr. Punch’s virtuous indignation the City of London still levies the obnoxious Coal Tax, and Parliamentary Reports have recently shown in what manner some of the money is expended.)

HENRY COLE, C.B.[34]

“We write in a state of great depression. Our readers will forgive us if we are not sprightly this week; there is a time for everything, and now with us it is the time for grieving. We have fallen under the displeasure of Mr. HENRY COLE, C.B.!!

Gentle Public pity us!

Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., deal gently with us.

Oh! creator of South Kensington; oh! author of Mumbo Jumbo, don’t be too hard on us.

We are sorry, and our heart is heavy within us. Oh! inexhaustible Cole, consume us not in thine ire!

What have we done that we should be smitten with thy fury? Did we ever insult thee by coupling thy name with high Art? Did we ever accuse thee of holding the interests of thy country higher than thine own? Listen while we praise thee.

Yes, we will now praise the great, the mighty, the gentle Cole. We will show him how deep, how sincere, is our love, our veneration, our worship, of Henry Cole, C.B.

Who is the very greatest architect of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest painter of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest military hero of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the greatest author of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the handsomest man of this age? Henry Cole, C.B. Who is the most immaculate statesman of this age? Henry Cole, C.B.

Oh! Henry Cole, C.B., will you forgive us now?”

_The Coming “Strife.”_

Old King Cole was a savage old soul,
And a savage old soul was he;
Captain Coles was his intimate friend,
And almost as savage as he.

Said Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be,
“My friend you must lend me a turret ship
In which I can put to sea?”

Says Captain Coles, while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see,
“For what do you want a turret ship,
And why sail o’er the sea?”

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“I want it to smash, and crash, and to dash,
The Ed. of the TOMAHAWKIE?”

Says Captain Coles while his eyeball rolls,
As savage as ever you see;
“I heard he had threatened you with 68 pound,
Of the finest gunpowder tea!”

Says Old King Cole, the savage old soul,
As savage as ever could be;
“If you’ll only lend me a turret ship,
I’ll soon annihilate he!”

_The Tomahawk._ September 7, 1867.

――――

YOUNG KING COAL.[35]
_New Version of an Old Song._

Young King COAL was a merry young soul,
And a merry young soul was he;
He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
There was CHAMBERLAININI, and HARTINGTONINI,
And, GOSCHENI to make up the three;
For young King C., oh, was fond of a tri-o,
Very fond of a trio was he.

Young King COAL left his rivals in the hole,
When he took the Chancelle-rie
Of the British Exchequer, and, to keep up their pecker,
They slanged him unmercifull-y.
So himself to cloak from the very provoking jeers of the Rad
Part-y,
Young King COAL their old mantle stole,
And a very smart Rad made he.

Young King COAL loved “smoking” in his soul,
And his Brummagem Best Bird’s-eye,
And his “Cavendish,” went faster than was pleasing to the master
Of the House where his new baccy’s he would try.
And our young King C., and his fiddlers three,
Thy kicked up such a shine and such a fume,
Mr. IRVING’S worst witch-riot in a _Faust_-scene’s clear and quiet,
To the Tory-Democratic Big Boom.

Young King COAL he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three,
And he served ’em out a dozen pounds of best Union rosin,
And they all played a symphonee.
CHAMBERLAININI and GOSCHENI played like STRAUSS and like ZERBINI,
And then HARTING-TON-I-NI
Played “_God Save the Queen!_” and the others all joined in,
In a way to make a patriot pipe his eye.

Young King COAL he laid down his bowl,
And a dickens of a speech made he;
And he talked so loud that he frightened half the crowd,
And broke up the symphonee.
At least some (in the Chorus) cried, “_This_ music can’t be for
us,”
But as for those fiddlers three,
Whilst the Chorus cried, “We’re diddled!” they symphonically
fiddled,
And muttered “O, fiddlededee!”

Young King COAL still waves his pipe and bowl,
Though they reek of Rad flavour still.
Some say it’s far from right, that he’ll set himself a-light,
And blow up like a gunpowder-mill.
But as for the whole of the “principles” of COAL,
When he was a true Toree,
If you want ’em you may see ’em in the British Museum,
Or the writings of Lord SALISBUREE.

_Punch._ December 4, 1886.

――――:o:――――

WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.

_From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads._

When this old cap was new――
’Tis since two hundred year――
No malice then we knew,
But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays,
(Believe me, this is true)
Which was not in those days,
When this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land
Were much delighted then
To have at their command
A crew of lusty men;
Which by their coats were known,
Of tawny, red, or blue,
With crests on their sleeves shown,
When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banish’d all,
Unto our lands reproach,
When he whose means are small
Maintains both horse and coach:
Instead of an hundred men,
The coach allows but two;
This was not thought on then,
When this old cap was new.

ANONYMOUS, about 1666.

――――

A CHANGE OF STYLE.

When this old hat was new
The railroad was a stage;
And a six-mile team
Made plenty of steam,
For the broadest kind of gauge.
You caught a goose when you wanted a pen,
The ink you used was blue;
And the women you loved didn’t want to be men
When this old hat was new.

A Spade was only a spade,
And Jennie was just plain “Jane”
For his impudent lip
A boy would skip
At the end of a rattan cane.
There were sixteen ounces in every pound,
Four quarts made a gallon true;
But things don’t seem as they used to be
When this old hat was new.

But we’ve shortened the time since then,
And we’re running a faster heat,
And the boys of ten
Are full-blown men,
Who run the store and the street.
We blush to giggle and we should smile;
We’re cute and we never say die;
We’re up to snuff and we’re full of guile;
And we’re just too awfully fly;
And father is governor, old man, dad,
And his old day is gone;
We run things fast and a little bad,
Since we put this new hat on.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.
_The Cincinnati Inquirer._

――――

WHEN THIS OLD JOKE WAS NEW.

When this old joke was new,
This time worn heritage,
The monkey-man its points did scan
On pre-historic page.
His footmark was the only print;
His leaves were leaves that grew;
The only tint was Nature’s tint
When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new,
Our literature was scant,
And _literateurs_ had no reviewers
With hearts of adamant;
No wild-eyed poets raved of “Spring”
We had our tails it’s true,
But novels were’nt a general thing
When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new,
We drew an easier breath;
For we had then no funny men
To make us long for death;
There was no _Punch_ austere and flat,
To paint our faces blue;
They wouldn’t have tolerated that
When this old joke was new.

When this old joke was new,
We somehow hadn’t hit
That loss of shame which builds a “name”
On other people’s wit.
Perhaps folks were more honest then;
Had consciences a few,
And different from _our_ race of men,
When this old joke was new.

HAL BERTE,
_The Detroit Free Press._

――――:o:――――

SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR.

Said a Smile to a Tear,
On the cheek of my dear,
And beamed like the sun in spring weather,
In sooth, lovely Tear,
It strange must appear,
That we should be both here together.

I came from the heart,
A soft balm to impart,
To yonder sad daughter of grief:
And I, said the Smile,
That heart now beguile,
Since you gave the poor mourner relief.

Oh! then, said the Tear,
Sweet Smile, it is clear,
We are twins, and soft Pity our mother:
And how lovely that face
Which together we grace,
For the woe and the bliss of another!

JAMES KENNEY.

An amusing parody of this song, entitled _The Loves of the Plants_ will be found on page 70 of Volume I. of the Universal Songster. Unfortunately it is too long, as well as too broad, to be inserted in this collection.

――――

THE STEAK AND THE CHOP.

Said a steak to a chop,
On a hook in a shop,
In the dog-days, and very hot weather,
“Dear chop, it is clear,
If we long tarry here,
We shall certainly melt both together.”

Said the chop from the chump,
To the steak from the rump,
“Unless there’s a change in the weather,
Lovely steak, I agree,
In a mess we shall be,
And be kitchen-stuff made both together.”

“Oh!” then, with a sigh,
Midst the sound, What d’ye buy!”
Said the steak to the chop with emotion,
“A long or short six,
In some save-all to fix,
Will at last be our doom, I’ve a notion!”

――――

SAID A FOX TO A GOOSE.

Said a fox to a goose,
(From a farm-house let loose)
And chanced to be pluming a feather,
“Dear goose, how d’ye do?
’Tis strange, and yet true,
That you and I meet here together!

Said the goose (with a stare),
“Mr. Fox, are you there?
And to see you indeed is a pleasure!
In truth I must say,
That your visit to-day,
Is really _delight_ beyond measure!”

Says the fox, “Then, we’ll walk,
And like friends so dear talk,
And never was seen finer weather.”
Says the goose, “Gander Grange
Has forbade me to range
Or else we would travel together.

Said the fox, “Let him be,
Take an airing with me,
And hear both the goldfinch and linnet!
On the _love_ of a _friend_,
You can, goosy, _depend_,
And”――snapt off her head in a minute.

――――:o:――――

SONG.
(_By a Person of Quality. Written in the year 1733._)

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart:
I, a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

Mild _Arcadians_, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o’er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the _Cyprian_ goddess weeping,
Mourn’d _Adonis_, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

_Cynthia_, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair _Discretion_, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright _Apollo_, lend thy choir.

Gloomy _Pluto_, king of terrors,
Arm’d in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my _Aurelia’s_ brows,
_Morpheus_, hovering o’er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth _Meander_,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown’d.

Thus when _Philomela_, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of _Juno_ stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

This mellifluous piece of nonsense was published in the _Miscellanies_ of Alexander Pope, but it was also inserted amongst the poems of Dean Swift, where it was entitled _A Love Song in Modern Taste_. It ridiculed an affected style of poetry then much in vogue, and which continued in fashion for many years, culminating in the writings of a clique, known as the _Della Cruscans_, which was originated by a few English, of both sexes, assembled at Florence in 1785. They were named _Della Cruscans_ because their leader, one Robert Merry, signed his trashy effusions as a member of the Acadamy Della Crusca at Florence. Merry wrote a tragedy, entitled _Lorenzo_, which was more successful than many comedies, for it made the audience laugh immoderately, besides innumerable poems long since forgotten. By a deliberate system of mutual puffing the Della Cruscans forced their absurd productions upon the public, and in the early years of the present century nearly every journal contained some of their poems, published over assumed names, such as Laura Maria, Edwin, Anna Matilda, &c. These were afterwards gathered into volumes, with a few poems by really able writers such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and published by subscription.

There is no knowing how long this twaddle might have held the public taste had not William Gifford (Editor of the Quarterly Review) produced his famous satires _The Baviad_, and _The Maeviad_, in which he mercilessly exposed the inflated nonsense written by the Della Cruscans; and by well chosen extracts from their poems turned the laugh so completely against them that they slunk back into their native obscurity.

Gifford’s satires are still read with pleasure, and the extracts given in the notes show that Pope’s nonsense verses were excelled by the would-be-serious Della Cruscans; as for example――

“Slighted love the _soul_ subduing
_Silent_ sorrow _chills_ the _heart_,
_Treach’rous_ fancy still _pursuing_,
Still _repels_ the _poisoned_ dart.

_Soothing_ those fond _dreams_ of pleasure
_Pictur’d_ in the _glowing_ breast,
_Lavish_ of her sweetest _treasure_,
Anxious _fear_ is _charm’d_ to _rest_.

Fearless o’er the whiten’d _billows_,
_Proudly_ rise, sweet bird of night,
_Safely_ through the bending _willows_
_Gently_ wing thy _aery_ flight.”

When the brothers Smith projected their famous _Rejected Addresses_ they included an imitation of the Della Cruscan poetry, entitled Drury’s Dirge, of which Lord Jeffery wrote “The verses are very smooth and very nonsensical――as was intended; but they are not so good as Swift’s celebrated song by a Person of Quality; and are so exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it is impossible to avoid making the comparison.”

――――

DRURY’S DIRGE.
BY LAURA MATILDA.[36]

“You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:
We want their _strength_, agreed; but we atone
For that, and more, by _sweetness_ all our own.”――GIFFORD.

I.

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus’ summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

II.

Softly slept the dome of Drury,
O’er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto’s sister-fury,
Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.

III.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Cytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.

IV.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

V.

See Erostratus the second
Fires again Diana’s fane;
By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,
Clouds envelope Drury Lane.

VI.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
Hand in hand reluctant dance:
While the God fulfils his mission,
Chivalry resign thy lance.

VII.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds dishevell’d lie,
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.

VIII.

See the bird of Ammon sailing,
Perches on the engine’s peak,
And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
Soothes them with its bickering beak.

IX.

Juno saw, and mad with malice,
Lost the prize that Paris gave:
Jealousy’s ensanguined chalice,
Mantling pours the orient wave.

X.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying,
Nox to Niobe was turn’d;
From Busiris Bacchus flying,
Saw his Semele inurn’d.

XI.

Thus fell Drury’s lofty glory,
Levell’d with the shuddering stones;
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

XII.

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature’s ringlets deck the thorn.

XIII.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.

XIV.

Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.

XV.

Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part!

HORACE SMITH.
From _The Rejected Addresses_, 1812.

――――

ALBUM VERSES.
_By a Fond Lover._

Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
Should these verses meet thine eye,
Clouds of absence soft dispelling,
Vacant memory heaves a sigh.

As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
Trembles to the tuneful wave,
So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
Till it canopies the grave!

Though another’s smiles requited,
Envious fate my doom should be:
Joy for ever disunited,
Think, ah! think, at times on me!

Oft amid the spicy gloaming,
Where the brakes their songs instil,
Fond affection silent roaming,
Loves to linger by the rill――

There when echo’s voice consoling,
Hears the nightingale complain,
Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
Bind my soul in beauty’s chain.

Oft in slumbers deep recesses,
I thy mirror’d image see;
Fancy mocks the vain caresses,
I would lavish like a bee!

But how vain is glittering sadness!
Hark, I hear distraction’s knell!
Torture gilds my heart with madness!
Now for ever fare thee well!

From _The Comic Latin Grammar_ by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh), illustrated by John Leech. London, David Bogue.

――――:o:――――

LORD LOVEL.

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate,
Combing his milk-white steed,
When up came Lady Nancy Bell,
To wish her lover good speed, speed, speed,
Wishing her lover good speed.

“Where are you going, Lord Lovel? (she said),
Oh, where are you going?” said she;
“I’m going, my Lady Nancy Bell,
Strange countries for to see, see, see,
Strange countries for to see.”

“When will you be back, Lord Lovel? (said she)
Oh, when will you come back?” said she.
“In a year or two, or three at most,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
I’ll return to my Lady Nancy.”

But he had not been gone a year and a day,
Strange countries for to see,
When languishing thoughts came into his head,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see, see, see,
Lady Nancy Bell he would go see.

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white horse,
Till he came to London town,
When he heard St. Pancras’ church bells ring,
And the people all mourning around, round, round,
And the people all mourning around.

“Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovel he said,
“Oh, what is the matter?” said he.
“A lord’s lady is dead,” an old woman said,
“And some call her Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
And some call her Lady Nancy.”

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide,
And the shroud to be turned down;
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips,
Till the tears came trickling down, down, down,
Till the tears came trickling down.

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day,
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow;
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,
Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras’ churchyard,
Lord Lovel was laid in the choir,
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
And out of her lover’s a brier-rier, rier,
And out of her lover’s a brier.

It grew and it grew to the church steeple top,
And then it could grow no higher;
So there it entwin’d in a true lover’s knot,
For true lovers all to admire,-rire,-rire,
For true lovers all to admire.

――――

FRAGMENT OF A BRADLAUGHABLE BALLAD.

He strode and he strode till he reached the lan_ding_,
And then he couldn’t “strode” any higher,
And there he saw Mister Inspector Den_ning_,
Who asked him at once to retire-’ire-’ire.
Suggesting that he should retire.

He tackled the Sergeant and his depu_tee_,
A Messenger too in the Lobby,
When in came a lot of Constabula_ree_,――
Mister Bradlaugh he collared a Bobby――’obby――’obby;
But _was_ collared too by that Bobby.

They fought and they tussled away down the stairs,
With many a gasp and a guggle,
And poor Daddy Longlegs, who won’t say his prayers,
Lost his collar and tails in the struggle――’uggle――’uggle.
Lost his temper and tails in the struggle.

Who profits by this? The reply’s not remote,
Not the Rough, nor the Bobby, nor Gaoler,
But _as_ Mister Bradlaugh must have a new coat,
’Tis a capital thing for his tailor――’ailor――’ailor,
A very good thing for the tailor.

_Punch._ August 13, 1881.

――――

THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL.

Lord Lovell he stood at his own front door,
Seeking the hole for the key;
His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore
A rent across either knee,
When down came the beauteous Lady Jane
In fair white draperee.

“Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?” she said:
“Oh, where have you been?” said she:
“I have not closed an eye in bed,
And the clock has just struck three.
Who has been standing you on your head
In the ash-barrel, perdee?”

“I am not drunk, Lady Shane,” he said:
“And so late it cannot be;
The clock struck one as I enter-ed――
I heard it two times or three;
It must be the salmon on which I fed
Has been too many for me.”

“Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell,” she said:
“To the maritime cavalree,
To your grandam of the hoary head――
To any one but me.
The door is not used to be open-ed
With a cigarette for a key.”

THE TUNEFUL LIAR.
“_Quips._” (Liverpool), March 18, 1887.

――――

JOE MUGGINS AND SALLY BELL.

Joe Muggins he stood at his own cottage door,
A-brushing down his black moke,
When up came his ladylove, Sally Bell,
And thus to her lovier she spoke――oke――oke――
And thus to her lovier she spoke.

Oh! where are you going, Joe Muggins, she said,
Oh! where are you going? said she.
I’m going, my lass, to Smith’ll markèt,
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey――key――key――
To Smith’ll to sell my donkey.

When will you come back, Joe Muggins? she said,
When will you come back to me?
In an hour or two, or three at the most,
So get me a herring for tea――tea――tea――
So get me a herring for tea.

Now he had not been gone an hour or more,
To Smithfield, and sold his donkey,
When a thought of the herring came into his head
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he――he――he――
I hope it’s a soft roe, said he.

* * * * *
(_Three coarse verses omitted._)

――――

LORD FADDLE’S ELECTION FOR BOSH.

Lord Fitz-Faddle he lived in Bel-gra-vi-a,
And being tired of town and ennui
He resolved to put up for M.P. somewhere,
A Parliament Member to be-e-e,
An honorable M.P. to be.

Lord Fitz-Faddle he asked what sum in hard “posh,”
Of his Tory friend, “W.B.”
It required, to get in for the City of Bosh,
And what the expenses might be-e-e,
And what the expenses would be.

Said “W.B.” a “safe, good man and true,”
“You must send down to Bosh speed-i-ly,
With a check on the Bank for a thousand or two,
Or perhaps he may want two or three-ree-ree,
Or perhaps he may want, &c.”

Lord Fitz he declared, with a smile, to his friend,
That he didn’t mean bri-ber-y;
Oh, dear, not at all!――not a shilling he’d spend,
But what was quite nec-ess ary-ry-ry,
But what was quite, &c.

Lord Fitz he went down, found a deal of distress
Pervading the coun-ter-y;
And, being a kind man, why, he couldn’t do less,
Than pity the poor Voters free-ree-ree,
Than help the Electors so free.

Then he ordered hotels to be open-ed wide,
The “Bell,” and the “George,” and the “Crown,”
And forced, when a poor Voter hard-up he spied,
A few onion tears to roll down-own-own,
The crocodile tears to roll down.

He suddenly took a great interest in pigs,
The crops, and all kinds of manure;
Vowed he’d nothing in common with Tories or Whigs,
But he was the real friend of the poor-oor-oor,
That he was the real friend, &c.

Then the “Free, Independent Electors,” somehow,
All got in the sun mer-ri-ly;
For a week, on the cheap, with mine host of the “Plough,”
They feasted con-tin-u-ally-ly-ly,
They kept up the game merrily.

’Twas astonishing, what a vast lot of new boots,
On a sudden, the Voters displayed;
And incredible, what a great number of suits
They got, for which “nobody” paid-aid-aid,
They wore, for which, &c.

* * * * *

Lord Fitz was returned, and the Liberals _beat_,
But soon comes up petitions, to see
Into some queer affairs, and he loses his seat,
For “treating,” and “grogs” bri-ber-y-y-y-y,
For treating, &c.

The Committee declare that corruption prevails,
But Lord Fitz didn’t know it――_oh, no_!
It was all through his Agents, the “Flukers” & “Frails,”
That his four or five thousand did go-o-o,
That his four or five, &c.

Lord Fitz gets elected, as it might be to-day,
But Lord Fitz gets unseated to-morrow;
And that all the expenses he’s forced to defray,
He knows very well to his sorrow-orrow-orrow,
He knows very well, &c.

So Lord Fitz in Bel-gra-vi-a biteth his nails,
Minus Parliament honours, and “posh,”
And he thinks, as do most, till the Ballot prevails,
There’ll be many more Cities like Bosh-osh-osh,
That there’ll be more elections like Bosh.

――――:o:――――

THE BROWN JUG.

(From the Opera of the “Poor Soldier,” by J. O’KEEFFE. The song itself is attributed to the Rev. FRANCIS FAWKES, who imitated it from the Latin of Hieronymus Amaltheus.)

Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale
(Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale),
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e’er crack’d a bottle, or fathom’d a bowl.
In boozing about ’twas his pride to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanced, as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow’r woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And Time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form’d this brown jug,
Now, sacred to friendship, to mirth and mile ale,
So here’s to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.

――――

“DEAR BILL, THIS STONE-JUG.”

(_Being an Epistle from_ TOBY CRACKSMAN, _in Newgate, to_ BILL SYKES.)

Dear Bill, this _stone-jug_,[a] at which flats dare to rail,
(From which till the next Central sittings I hail)
Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole,
Where MACHEATH met his _blowens_,[b] and WYLDE floor’d his bowl.
In a ward with one’s _pals_,[c] not locked up in a cell,
To an old hand like me it’s a _fam-ly_[d]-_hotel_.

In the day-rooms the _cuffins_[e] we queer at our ease,
And at _Darkman’s_[f] we run the rig just as we please;
There’s your _peck_[g] and your _lush_, hot and reg’lar, each day.
All the same if you work, all the same if you play.
But the lark’s when a _goney_[h] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our _lurks_,[i] our _flash-putter_,[j] and smut;

But soon in his eye nothing green will remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s _quodded_,[k] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him _fly to the jug_.[l]
But here comes a cuffin――which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is _screevin’_[m] to pals out o’ goal.

(_The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed._)

For them coves in Guildhall and that blessed LORD MAYOR, _Prigs on their four bones should chop whiners_,[n] I swear: That long over Newgit their Worships may rule, As the _High-toby, mob, crack and screeve_[o] model school; For if Guv’ment was here, not the Alderman’s Bench, Newgit soon ’ud be bad as “_the Pent_” or “_the Tench_.”[p]

_Note._――We subjoin a Glossary of MR. CRACKSMAN’S lingo:――

[a] Prison.
[b] Ladies of a certain description.
[c] Comrades or fast friends.
[d] Thieves speak of themselves as “family-men.”
[e] Warders.
[f] Night.
[g] Meat and drink.
[h] A greenhorn.
[i] Tricks of the trade.
[j] Talking slang.
[k] Imprisoned.
[l] Up to prison ways.
[m] Writing.
[n] Thieves should pray on their knees.
[o] Highway-robbers, swell-mobsmen, burglars, and forgers.
[p] Slang names for Pentonville Model Prison, and Milbank
Penitentiary.

_Punch._ January 31, 1857.

――――

FANCY PORTRAIT OF A BISHOP FILL-POTS.[37]

Dear Tom, this black pot, which now foams with vile gall,
Out of which you now see lies abundantly fall,
Was once Toby Phillpots, as venal a soul
As e’er stretched his conscience t’wards interest’s goal,
In telling a lie ’twas his praise to excel,
And amongst Major Longbows he bore off the bell.

It chanced, as in London he sat at his ease,
In want of preferment, as hot as you please,
With a pen and some ink pamphleteering away,
That Wellington made him a Bishop one day;
In the Lords, as his mouth he could never keep shut,
He lied till he soon was the Chancellor’s _butt_.

Yes, ’gainst Catholics long time he had laboured for gain,
Till pay set his principle all on the wane,
When the Duke found him out in _incognito_ snug,
And contrived to a Bishoprick Toby to lug,
Who sacred in office, but damned in himself,
Now is wholly divided ’twixt venom and pelf.

_Figaro in London._ July 14, 1832.

――――

THE WHITE MUG.

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

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

W. M. THACKERAY.

――――

THE GIPSY KING.

’Tis I am the Gipsy King,
And where is the king like me?
No troubles my dignities bring;
No other is half so free.
In my kingdom there is but one table,
All my subjects partake in my cheer;
We would all have champagne were we able,
As it is, we have plenty of beer;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.

A king, and a true one, am I;
No courtiers nor ministers here!
I see everything with my own eye,
And hear everything with my own ear.
No conspiracies I apprehend,
Among brothers and equals I rule;
We all help both to gain and to spend,
And get drunk when the treasury’s full;
And ’tis I am the gipsy king.

* * * * *

This song is founded upon a number of earlier songs recounting the supposed joys of a gipsy life, a few of which may be enumerated for comparison. The first is taken from an old play, entitled “_More Dissemblers besides Women_,” printed in 1657:――

_Song of the Gipsies._

Come, my dainty doxies,
My dells, my dells most dear;
We have neither house nor land,
Yet never want good cheer.
We never want good cheer.

We take no care for candle rents,
We lie, we snort, we sport in tents,
Then rouse betimes and steal our dinners.
Our store is never taken
Without pigs, hens, or bacon,
And that’s good meat for sinners:
At wakes and fairs we cozen
Poor country folk by dozen.

If one have money, he disburses;
Whilst some tell fortunes, some pick purses?
Rather than be out of use,
We’ll steal garters, hose, or shoes,
Boots, or spurs, with gingling rowels,
Shirts or napkins, smocks or towels.
Come live with us, come live with us.

* * * * *

A somewhat similar song occurs in _The Spanish Gipsy_, first printed in 1653, it commences:――

Trip it, gipsies, trip it fine,
Show tricks and lofty capers;

At threading-needles we repine,
And leaping over rapiers:
Pindy pandy rascal toys!
We scorn cutting purses;
Though we live by making noise,
For cheating none can curse us.

――――

THE RAILWAY KING.

Oh! ’tis I am the Railway King,
And where’s there a king like me,
No trouble my shareholders bring,
No monarch is half so free;
In my kingdom there’s but one table,
And that is the time-table here,
We all go as fast as we’re able,
And steam is our charioteer!
For ’tis I am the Railway King!
Ha! ha!
’Tis I am the Railway King!

* * * * *
(Three verses omitted).

_Joe Miller the younger._ October 25, 1845.

――――

OH! ’TIS I AM A FRISKY KING.
(_As sung by his Majesty of Bavaria with the greatest
applause, at Munich._)

Oh! ’tis I am a frisky King
And where is the King like me?
Into trouble myself I shall bring,
For I am so easy and free.
My kingdom’s affairs are unstable;
My subjects suspect I am queer;
_Lola Montez_ I’d wed were I able,
As it is, she’s my sweetheart so dear.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.

A King, and a rum one am I,
No Jesuit nor minister fear;
Their counsels I think all my eye,
And give them a flea in their ear.
No conspiracy I apprehend,
To Lola I’ve given the rule,
She helps me to gain and to spend,
And in fact, she has got quite the pull.
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.

I confess that I am but a man,
My failings, who pleases, may know;
I’m fond of my girl, and I can,
If she likes, let her kick up a row,
My subjects are kind unto me,
They don’t mind my being an ass;
Nor yet that I hold on my knee,
At this moment, the prettiest lass,
For I am the Frisky King, ha! ha!
For I am the Frisky King.

_The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I.

Charles Louis, King of Bavaria, caused great dissatisfaction in his dominions by his reckless extravagance, and his utter incapacity to fulfil the duties of his position. He formed a disgraceful _liaison_ with a scheming adventuress generally known under the assumed name of _Lola Montes_, but whom he created Countess Von Landfeldt. At length the interference of Lola Montes in state affairs became too notorious, and she was banished the Kingdom. She afterwards led a wandering life, delivered some lectures in London in 1859, thence proceeding to the United States. She died in New York, January 17, 1861. Charles Louis was compelled to abdicate in March, 1848, but survived his fall for twenty years, living to see the throne occupied by his grandson, Louis II., the Mad King and patron of Wagner, who recently committed suicide.

――――

THE GIPSY “KING.”
(A CAVEAT FROM THE DULWICH ENCAMPMENT.)

Oh, ’tis I am a gipsy king,
And where is there king like me?
From my freehold land defiance I fling,
And scoff at the powers that be;
For my court is my caravan,
Where in dozens my subjects “pig,”
And drink and fight like a riotous clan,
And for nobody trouble a fig.

They say that a nuisance am I
To the householders far and near,
That my ribald rabble make women fly,
And our raids fill tenants with fear.
We’re a pest, a disturbance, a curse
(So I hear that the gentlefolks say),
But they’d find it hard were we ten times worse
To frighten the gipsies away.

They may talk of the Vagrant Act,
And the Nuisance Inspector send
(My dog the medical officer pack’d),
And the School Board its aid may lend;
The Vestry its powers may bring,
And the Courts and the Parleyment,
But they’re only amusing the gipsy king,
And his court in the van and tent.

_Funny Folks_, June 22, 1878.

――――:o:――――

WHEN WE WENT OUT A GIPSYING.

In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
The lads and lasses in their best,
Were drest from top to toe.
We danc’d and sung the jocund song,
Upon the forest green,
And nought but mirth and jollity,
Around us could be seen.
And thus we pass’d the merry time,
Nor thought of care or woe,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.

All hearts were light, and eyes were bright,
And nature’s face was gay,
The trees their leafy branches spread,
And perfume filled the May;
’Twas there we heard the cuckoo’s note,
Steal softly through the air,
While every scene around us look’d,
Most beautiful and fair,
And thus we pass’d, &c.
* * * * *

――――

THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT GIPSYING.

Oh, the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago,
Though meant to be amusing trips,
Proved nothing else but woe.
The fire-place would never draw,
The wood was always green,
And naught but flies and creeping things
Were in the milkpot seen.
And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.

The tea was always very bad,
The water never boiled;
We wore the smartest things we had,
And they were always spoiled.
And if along the meadows damp
We felt inclined to roam,
It usually began to rain,
Before we got safe home.

And thus we passed the hours away,
In pastime very slow,
In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago.

We never mean to pay again
A visit to the scene,
And seat ourselves on emmets’ nests――
We are not now so green.
We do not love it overmuch,
But when we want our tea,
We’ll take it on a table, where
It always ought to be.

And thus we’ll drink it properly,
Provided ’tis not sloe,
Much better than the gipsying
A long time ago!

From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. 1848.

――――

AN OXFORD SONG.

Oh, the days we read those musty books, a short time ago,
Were certainly the seediest a man could ever know.
We filled no glass, we kissed no lass, our hacks grew fat and
sleek,
We thought it dissipation if we rode them twice a week.
We rose up early in the morn, we sat up late at e’en,
And nought but horrid lexicons about us could be seen!

Unheeded lay our meerchaums then, our “Lopez” bound in green;
The undisturbed blue-bottle was on our team-whip seen;
The goblets in our foxes’ heads ne’er shone with good Bordeaux,
But we took a glass of something mild, and talked about “_Great
go_.”

We rose up early, &c.

We got parental letters then, in which ’twas gravely vowed,
How _harrowed_ all would be at home, if we perchance were
_ploughed_:
And what was worse, those sordid _duns_ an early payment wished,
’Till, what ’twixt ticks and tutors too, we felt extremely
“fish’d.”

We rose up, &c.

’Tis past! ’tis past! ’tis won at last! my Muse no longer grieves;
We sweep adown the High Street now in our long silken sleeves;
And envious Under-graduates sigh forth as we draw near,
“O, crickey! how I wish I was a ‘new-made Bacalere.’
They rise up when they like at morn, they sit up late at e’en,
And hunt and quaff, and smoke and laugh, the whole Term thro’,
I ween.”

From _Hints to Freshmen_. Oxford: J. Vincent.

――――

THE LAY OF THE LOVER’S FRIEND.

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o’er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I’m touched myself,
For that I do not fear:
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.

But ’tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

When e’er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.

Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”

O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

I’ve heard her thoroughly described,
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way
“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”

But oh! it is the heaviest bore
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he’d do like me
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood,
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o’er the sea.

For ’tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know.
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.

Professor Aytoun died in 1865. These verses are taken from a collection, published in Boston, entitled _The Humorous Poetry of the English Language_, by J. Parton, but I do not know where they first appeared.

――――

OLD SIMON THE CELLARER.

Old Simon, the cellarer, keeps a rare store――
Of malmsey and malvoisie,
And cyprus, and who can say how many more,
For a chary old soul is he,
Of sack and canary he never doth fail,
And all the year round there is brewing of ale;
Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say,
While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day;
But ho, ho, ho, his nose doth show,
How oft the black-jack to his lips doth go.

Dame Margery sits in her own still room,
And a matron sage is she;
From thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume.
She says it is rosemary.
But there’s a small cupboard, behind the back stair,
And the maids say they often see Margery there――
Now Margery says she grows very old,
And must take a something to keep out the cold;
But ho, ho, ho, old Simon doth know――
Where many a flask of his best doth go.

Old Simon reclines in his high-backed chair,
And talks of taking a wife,
And Margery oft has been heard to declare,
She ought to be settled for life.
Now, Margery has, so the maids say, a tongue;
She’s not very handsome, nor yet very young;
So, somehow, it ends with a shake of the head,
And Simon he brews him a tankard instead――
With ho, ho, ho, he’ll chuckle and crow
What, marry old Margery! no, no, no.”

J. L. HATTON.[38]

――――

CAVEAT VENDITOR.