Chapter I: FOLLOWED the fox, tally ho!

I followed the fox, with a go, by Joe!
As swift as a swallow, or crow,
Wo ho!

The ditch, is a cropper, hello!
I am in it! and out, and a show!
Am asked to the next, won't go!

HE was a courteous manager--a Bosser of the Bank,
He filled the post of Chairman, and other seats of rank.
But he was never envied, his screw was almost nil--
Ten thousand pounds per annum, and chances from the till.
One day, when he was wiping his specks, thought he, "I hold,
I'm working all for nothing by a heap of solid gold.
I'll make of it a custom, a couple of months or so,
To leave the strong room open as in and out I go.
And fitfully in absence of mind, I'll drop my bunch
Of keys about, and leave them when going down for lunch.
The point of which is plainly, that on a certain night,
I'll seize on all the Bullion, and fix it out of sight.
I will not be suspected, I'll do whate'er I please,
For I have clinked the vintage with nobles and M.P.'s;
And though I know he's honest, I'll make it so appear,
That I will prove the robber, is the honest young cashier.

They'll pass a vote of censure, that I did leave behind,
My keys, and strong room open, but, pshaw! I need not mind.
'Twill come out on the trial, I'll make it sure and clear,
'Twas all of too much trust in the honest young cashier."

He left the strong room open; he left his keys about,
Upon his mantle-shelf, and desk, anon when he went out--
A custom not unnoticed by him, the young cashier,
Who got a stick of wax, and what he did with it is clear.

One night there was a darkness, like crape upon the land,
And such a gust and thunder, a man could hardly stand.
The tempest was so fearsome, that if you spoke in shouts,
'Twould only be a tangle of tipsy words and doubts.
'Twas on that gloomy evening, the honest young cashier,
Bespoke him to the manager, and "Sir," said he, "Look here,
The staff is nearly idle, and so I think you might
Excuse me now, I'm wanting to do a thing to-night?"

"Well, you may go and do it." He went, and down he stole
Into the lonely coal-hole, behind a lump of coal,
And trussed him like a hedgehog upon the slack till sure,
He heard the distant slamming, that closed the outer door.
Then stole him from the coal-hole, he stole him up the stairs,
He ambushed on the landing, for fear of unawares.
He stole into the strong-room, and stealing out his key,
He stole it to the keyhole, and opened cautiously.
He looted off that evening as much as he could hold,
'Twas close on half a million, and all in solid gold.

* * * * *

'Twas on that self-same evening the chairman thought 'twas right,
To work his own manoeuvre, 'twas such a roughish night.
Three overcoats were on him, with pockets every side,
Ten carpet bags he carried, and all were deep and wide.
He also had a hatbox, and novel thought, and bright;
He stitched a row of stockings behind him out of sight,
He loaned a sealskin wallet, a whalebone gingham tent,
And through the garden gate he skid, and down the town he went.
He skirmished through the darkness, he skulked against the wind,
He spankled by some people, and left them all behind.
He slewed around a corner, and up the lane he slank,
And shuffled thro' the wicket of the courtyard of the Bank.
He ducked into the back door, and picking up the stair,
He sneaked into the strong room, and, heavens! what was there?
The iron door was open, and all the heap of gold
Was gone! He sank with horror, and to the floor he rolled.

And from beneath the tables and corners of the room,
Three coppers scrambled on him, like shadows of his doom.

They put him on his trial, and heedless of his rank,
He got an awful sentence, for robbing of the Bank.

It proves that men are mortal, the sequel I have here,
The bankers called a meeting, they called the young cashier.
Said they, "You have impressed us with great integritee,
We'll give the future management of all the Bank to thee."

They made a testimonial, and signed it every one,
'Twas cornered with the pictures of specious deeds he'd done;
And on the scroll in beauty, of art did there appear,
The tribute of their homage to the honest young cashier.

When you prepare for robbing, don't leave your keys about,
For fear a wax impression be taken while you're out;
And do not come in second, or it might be your doom
To chance upon three bobbies from the corners of the room.

PRETTY maiden, all the way,
All the way, all the way,
Pretty maiden, why so gay,
On the road, to London?

"Will you give that rose to me?"
"That's the flower, of love," said she,
"I'll not give this rose to thee,
On the road, to London."

"I have got a love, and he,
Is a good heart, true to me,
'Tis for him, this rose you see,
On the road, to London."

"Where is now, that love?" asked he,
"He's away from me," cried she,
"But he'll soon return to me,
On the road, to London."

"Would you know him, an' he be
Waiting there, by yonder tree?"
"Aye would I, on land or sea,
Or the road, to London!"

"Then my sweetest, I am he,
Give that rose of love to me,
I have come, to greet with thee,
On the road, to London!"

Then he flung his cloak aside,
"I have come to make a bride,
Of the fairest, far and wide,
On the road, to London."

Then she laughed at him, and chaffed,
Unromantic, chaffed, and laughed;
Till he thought, that she was daft,
On the road, to London.

"No!" said she "That's not the way,
Parted lovers, meet to-day,
'Tis by note, or wire, they say
'On the road, to London.'

"So 'twere best, thou didst by flight,
Take thy footsteps, out of sight,
Lest my love, per fortune, might
Strike the road, to London!

"We've been having shrimps and tea,
He's a champion knock out; He
Could knock spots off you," said she,
On the road, to London.

"See! my spouse, from yonder gap,
Cometh like a thunder clap!"
"Ho! then here's for the first lap!
On the road, to London."

WHILE poking my umbrella into the cracks and crannies that serve to vary the monotonous setting of the stones of a certain Pyramid of Egypt, I scraped away a portion of mortar or cement, and was agreeably surprised, by discovering a roll, of what I fondly hoped might be a bundle of faded Bank of England notes; but on closer inspection, it proved to be a scroll of papyrus, thickly covered with curious hieroglyphics.

They throw a misty light on the history of the O'Tooles, for written in a strange mingling of blank verse, and ballad metre, they purport to give a correct version of the account of the Deluge; in which disaster, it appears that a worthy ancestor of the said family played a conspicuous, and important part.

An Addenda accounting for their presence in the pyramid is appended, and contains the plausible statement, that it was actually a descendant of the said O'Toole, who designed and built the tombs of the Pharoahs, and adopted this subtle means of sending his name down to these remote ages.

Some savants and Egyptologists will cavil at this startling information, but I happen to be in possession of a three cornered cypher that runs thro' the composition of their architecture, which will be of convincing merit, when I have time to issue the seven folio volumes, which I am not preparing at present, in connection with this important subject.

The opening line proves that the Ballad must have been composed at a much earlier period than that of the deluge.

'TWAS in the raal ould antient times, when there wasn't any probability
Of thruth at all in anything, before the world was dhrownded,
An' the people spoke in Irish, with a wonderful facility,
Before their undherstandin's wor be foreign tongues confounded,
It was just about this pariod of the fine ould anshint history
Of the murnful earth, that Pat O'Toole, the Irishman was born,
He gev the information,
In a noisy intimation
Of his presence, rather early, on a Whitsun Monday morn,

But it's not all out particular, or anything material,
To the thruth consarnin' all about the narrative I've spun,
The story of his birth, or the mirth
Upon this earth,
That shook his father's rafthers, with rousin' rounds of fun.

* * * * *

Whin Pat at last had come of age, It took a hundred years or so,
For then the men lived longer, and a minor wasn't free,
To slip out of the chancery,
An' from his legal infancy,
To come into his property,
Till the end of a century;

Well it was just about that time a floatin' big menagerie,
Was bein' built by Noah, in the exhibition thrade,--
He advertised, an' posted it, got editorial puffs on it,
Explainin' that 'twould be the best, that ever yet was made.

He had it pasted up on walls, dhrawn out in yalla, red, an' green,
A lion tamer too
Was dhrew,
In puce, an' royal blue,
A hairy bowld gorilla new,
He got from Mossoo Doo Shalloo,
An elephant with thrunk, hooroo!
The plaziozarus, and emu,
A wild hoopoo,
A cockatoo,
An' the boxin' kangaroo,
He had it hoarded round, away
From thim that didn't want to pay,
An' guarded all be polis, in a private public park,
He paid a man that cried "Hooray!"
In shouts you'd hear a mile away,
"Come in, an' see the menagerie, that's cotch for
Noah's Ark,
Come look at the wild menagerie, before the flood of wet comes down,
For thin ye won't have time to see, ye'll all be dhrownded thin!
The glass is goin' down to-day
An' sure from far Americay,
A blizzard's on the thrack I hear, so lose no time, come in!"

Twas thin O'Toole, the Irishman, pushed wid his elbows thro' the crowd,
He dhropped his tanner, an' he wint into the show that day,
An' as he thrapsed along the decks, an' in the howld, an' up an' down,
He sudden got a pleasin' thought, an' thin he went away,
He kep' the saycret to himself, an' never towld a single sowl,
He kep' it dark, so there was none to budge, or tell the tale,
He wint to Father Mooney, an' he took the pledge agin' the drink,
An' in the sheds of his back yard, he built a fleet of sail,
He whistled as he worked, an' took a soothin' whiff of honest weed,--
That wasn't 'dultherated wid cabbage laves, or such,--
"I'll prove that Noah's out of it,"
He sung, an' took an airy fit
Of step dancin', "I'll make a hit, an' lave him on a crutch!"
He saw that Noah advertised, in notices around about,
He'd have to charge the passengers, to save them from the flood,
'Twas such a dirty selfish thrick, that nobody could stand to it;
But like a thrue born Irishman, siz Pat, siz he, "I could
Collect thim all,
Both great an' small,
An' won't give him a chance at all,
I'll spoil his speculation, an' I'll save thim from the flood!"

Wid that he wandhered round the world, an' gathered curiosities,
Of every sortins of the male, an' of the faymale kind,
An' thin embarked thim in his fleet, until he had them all complate,
He didn't lave a quadruped, or bird, or midge behind,
He kep' the saycret to himself, an' never wint upon the dhrink,
An' out of every pub, they missed his presence round the town,
Until the sky was gettin dark,
An' thin the hatches of the ark,
Wor overhauled by Noah, an' the wet kem peltin' down,
Thin Japhet, Shem, an' Ham, stood on the threshowld of
their father's ark,
An' shouted to the thousands, that wor in the teemin' rain,
"Shut up yer umberellas quick, an' save yerselves for half-a-crown,
Ye'll never have a chance like this, in all yer lives again!
For if ye want to save yer wives,
Or if ye'd like to lave yer wives,
Or maybe wish to save yer lives!
It's half a crown, come in,
The world will all be dhrownded soon!
We know it be the risin' moon,
A wheel of mist is round her boys,
Come in, an' save yer skin!"
The charge was rather high, an' so they didn't get a sowl to go,
For thin the royal mint was low, an' everyone was poor,
"Ah! what's the use of bawlin' there?" siz Noah, from his aisy chair,
"Yer only blatherin to the air! come in an' hasp the door,"
Just thin the wathers risin' high, the people all began to cry,
An' scrambled to the places dhry, as fast as they could whail;
Whin all at once they seen a show, for from the distance down below,
Came Captain Pat O'Toole hooroo! an' all his fleet of sail!

He scattered life belts in the flood, an' empty casks, an'
chunks of wood,
An' everything he possibly could, with nets, an' ropes, an' thongs
He dhragged thim in by hook, or crook, a tinker, king, a
thramp or duke,
By fishin' line, or anchor fluke, an' several pairs of tongs,

The elephant loaned out his thrunk,
To male or faymale, in their funk
Of wather,--without whiskey,--dhrunk;
An' risin' thro' the wreck
Of the cowld deluge, teemin' round,
Giraffe, an' ostrich, scoured the ground,
An' every dhrownin' sowl they found,
They saved them by a neck!
For Pat was known, to bird, an' baste,
Of kindly heart, an' so a taste,
Of pleasin' gratitude they placed,
For help of Captain Pat,
While fore, an aft, an' every tack,
The captain scrambled like a black,--
With freight of men, his punts to pack--
In specks, an' bright top hat.
On larboard, or on starboard side, whatever dhrownin'
Crowds he spied, he dhragged them in wid wholesale pride,
As quick as jumpin' cat!
The blind an' lame, the short, an' tall, the wild, an' tame,
The great, an' small, wid tubs he came, an' saved them all,
The skinny, round, an' fat.

He didn't care,
At front or rare,
Or head or tail,
No matther where,
He didn't fail,
By skin, or hair,
Whin once he cotch a grip,
He hawled thim in with frightened howls, upon the decks, as
thick as rowls;
Till all the world of livin' sowls, wor safe in every ship!!

He saved the King of Snookaroo, he had no trowsers on, its thrue,
But what is that to me or you? he saved him all the same,
There was no bigotry in Pat, an' in the bussel of the king,
He stuck a boat hook, with a spring, an' saved him all the same!
The Rooshan Bear he did not shirk, he cotch him on a three-pronged
fork,
And wrastlin' with a furious Turk, he dumped thim on the deck,

The Chinese Emperor; he squat around a lamp, siz he to Pat,
"O Captain take me out of that,"
Pat scruffed him be the neck,
"O do not save the Jap he said,
He has no pigtail on his head,
The bad pernicious chap!"--But Pat hauled in the Jap.

Outside a public house, the sign was loaded with the muses nine,
They shouted "Pat ah! throw a line, we've all been on the dhrink,"
Siz Pat "Although I'll never brake the pledge meself, here,
thry an' take
Howld of the teeth of this owld rake," and raked thim
in like wink!
Three judges of a county coort, wor by the wathers taken short,
O throth, it must have been the sport, to see their
dhreepin' wigs!
"Ketch on to this!" said Pat O'Toole, an' like a soft, good
natured fool,
He flung a lawyer's 'lastic rule, an' dhragged thim in
like pigs,
We'd all be innocent, in bliss, with ne'er a polis, but for this,
The judges shouted, "do not miss"--and dashed their
dhreepin' wigs,
"O save the polismen!" they cried, "There's thirteen on a
roof outside;"
An' with some knotted sthrips of hide, he mopped them in
like pigs,

"Now ships ahoy!"
siz Pat, "We may
Put out to say,
Without delay,
An' while its day,
We'll start away,
Before the rising gale,"

Thin from a bog oak, three-legg'd stool,
He took the sun, with a two foot rule,
An' round the world, went Pat O'Toole,
An' all his fleet of sail!

'Twas on St. Swithin's day, the wet began, an' rained for
forty days,
An' forty nights, it blundhered out the thunder, lift
an' right,
Whin like a merricle it stopped, the sun came out, said Pat
O'Toole,
"Hooroo! there's land ahoy! the tops of Wicklow are in sight!"

An' then he brought his ships around, an' dhropped a cargo
everywhere,
In counthries where they'd propagate, an' where he thought
they'd fit,
He made a present to the blacks, of lions and the tigers, and
The serpents and the monkeys, and such awkward perquisit,
He gev the Esquimaux, the bears, an' with the Rooshins, left a few,
An' dhropped a hungry wolf or two, to make the bargain square,
The mustang, and the buffaloe, the red man of the wilderness,
To bowld Amerikay he gev, an' still you'll find thim there,

To Hindoostan, the elephant, an' hippopotamus he gev,
The alligator, crocodile,
The simple vulture too,
The divil for Tasmania, the 'possum, an' the parakeet,
He brought out to Osthreelia, with the boundin' kangaroo.
He left the Isle of Man the last, an' gev a three-legged cat that
passed
One day, beneath a fallin' mast, an' cut her tail in two!

The only thing he missed, in this regard of all the captain done,
He didn't save the Irish elk, 'twas dhrownded be the flood,
But still we can't find fault with him, he made it up to Erin, for
He didn't lave a reptile there, an' did a power of good.

But while the Captain, Pat O'Toole, was coastin' round, an'
dhroppin' men,
An' elephants, an' butterflies, behind him in his thrack,
The ark with Noah, and his wife, an' childer, sthruck on Ararat,
An' sprung a leak, an' all at once, became a total wrack!

Whin Noah got his specks, an' saw by manes of different telegrams,
How Pat O'Toole had been at work, his heart within him sunk,
Siz he unto his Familee, "Let one of you's, sit up for me,"
Thin slipped around the corner, and he dhrank till he got dhrunk.

But Pat O'Toole, he always kep' the pledge, he took before the flood,
He lived for eighteen hundred years, a blameless sort of life,
And whin he died, the Hill of Howth was built up for his monument,
And Ireland's eye was modelled out, in memory of his wife.

TO fill his glass as host,
Was honour I did boast,
And he spake to me one day, with a smile,

"You wish to make a mark,
Then to my counsel hark,
In the Co., for which I'm chairman, put your pile."
He was noble, he was good,
Of the upper ten, his blood
Æsthetic tint of azure, all the while,
A tone to conjure with,--I put my pile.

The shares went down, O my!
Was not a fool to buy;
If I had been a savage on the Nile,
I needn't pen this sonnet, with a sigh!

YOU can't exist on nothing, when launched in wedded life--
So a lucky battered sixpence, was all I gave my wife,
And said to her one morning, "When another vessel starts
I'll scoot, and make my fortune, in romantic foreign parts."

And so I went and scooted, but how the thing was done,
Was not like any pic-nic, or passage made for fun.
We had hardly left the Channel, and were in the offing yet,
When the steward heard me snoring in the quiet lazarette.

It wasn't quite successful--the voyage--after this,
And when we got out foreign, I didn't land in bliss.
I worked my passage over, but the captain wasn't kind,
And all I got for wages, was a compliment behind!

And thus I was a failure, my later life was worse,
When twenty years were over, at last I found a purse.
It made me sad, and homesick, and tired of foreign life,
"I'll start," says I, "for Europe, and try and find my wife."

I sought her when I landed, but everything was changed,
And high and low I wandered, and far and near I ranged;
I put her full description in several ads.--at last
My flag of hope that fluttered, came half-way down the mast.

I went, and I enlisted all in the bluecoat ranks;
And took to promenading along the Liffey banks.
I made a measured survey of curbstones in the squares,
And prowled behind the corners, for pouncing unawares.

Twelve months of measured pacing, had gone since I began;
I hadn't run a prisoner, the time was all I ran;
And when the year had vanished, said the sergeant, "Halt, O'Brine!
You haven't run a prisoner, you'll have to draw the line."

That night I went and drew it--'twas peeping through a blind!--
I got some information, of suspicious work behind.
The act I had my eye on, was a woman with some lead,
I watched her squeeze a sixpence, in wad of toughened bread.

A chance of some distinction was here, I could not shirk,
I peeled my worsted mittens, and bravely went to work.
I double somersaulted the window--'twas a do
I picked up in Australia, from a foreign kangaroo.

I lighted on the table, not quite upon my feet,
But, ah! her guilty terror was evidence complete.
"Wot's this," said I, impounding the lead, and bread, and tin;
"I've caught you in the act, ma'am, I'll have to run you in."

They put her on her trial, and the evidence began,
I swore my information, like a polis and a man;
I showed a silver sixpence, with a hole in it defined,
And showed them how I telescoped my presence thro' the blind.

The jury found her guilty, the judge condemned her then,
To go into retirement, where she couldn't coin again.
"O, sure I wasn't coinin', mavourneen judge asthore,
'Twas the sixpence of my sweetheart that's on a foreign shore.

A lucky one he gave me, he stayed away too long.
I wanted for to change it, and thought it wasn't wrong
To take its little photograph, for the sake of bein' his wife."
Said the Judge, "It doesn't matter, I've sentenced you for life!"

I saw her disappearing, from my eye behind the dock,
O, ham an fowl! it's awful, to think upon the shock.
I staggered with my baton to the sergeant, and I swore,
He had made me run too many, I'd seek a foreign shore.

SHE was charming, full of grace,
A hostess, you could place
In a higher sphere, than that in which she shone,
"I've a partner you should meet,
A girl, extremely sweet!"
And for the dance she always put me on,
But meetings of regret,
Were maidens that I met,
My hostess was a gay designing one,
Her wallflowers were too plain,
The waltz did give me pain,
I took a B. and S. and I was gone!
She played with me, too often put me on,
My hostess was a gay designing one!

HE was up on the hustings, and thrashed with his tongue,
The air in a socialistic vein,
And as an employer, for the workers he felt,
By proxy,--a sympathetic pain!
A pang, that the few could wallow in their wealth,
Whilst many--their brothers--should sweat,
"But ha!" shouted he, with a chuckle, and a grin,
"You'll be having a millenium of it yet!"

He taught that the masters should share with the men,
He scouted, with pitiless vim,
The right of the master, to more than his man,
For his man was the master of him,
Then they flourished their hats, for the precept, with hope,
That to practice, he might be content;
But the confidence trick, is a hustings resource,
And to part, wasn't just what he meant:
He spoke, as a speech is the fashion to-day,
In loud paradoxical words,
As a titled Premier of the Commons, would shout,
"Down down with the House of Lords."
But still, 'twas a hopeful, and beautiful proof,
That the cause of the toiler, was just,
And he wouldn't have to wait, very long for a snack,
From the sugar ornamented upper crust,
In a very little time, he'd be gathering his whack,
From the azure-fired diamond--upper dust,
"You'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men,
Put me into Parliament, and then,
You'll find it a fact, we'll pass every act,
For your chums, and your kids, working men,
The hours you will work, will be eight, working men,
On Saturday, not quarter so late,
And another holiday, in the middle of the week,
We'll give you, by the laws of the state,
With a capon, or a duck, on your plate,
O put me into Parliament, and _wait_!
You'll be having the land parcelled out into bits,
You'll be all of you fixed in the soil,
And spontaniety of crops you will reap,
Without any trouble or toil.
The screw will extend for each working man,
Employers will have to screw back,
Till tailored by the act, in polished top hats,
You'll all be as gents in the track!
We'll cut away the taxes, by the laws that we'll pass!
You won't have to pay any rate!
You'll be having a millenium of it yet, working men,
O put me into Parliament, and _wait_!"

And thus with emotional foliated flights,
He spoke like the clashing of swords,
As a titled Premier of the Commons would shout,
"Down down with the House of Lords!"

He finished his speech in a thunder of cheers,
The welkin was knocked into splits,
And he smuggled off home, by the rear, or his trap,
They'd have looted for souvenir bits!

* * * * *

With the conscience of one, who believes he has done,
What was really the best, for himself,
He retired into bed, that night, and he fell
Fast asleep, like a saint on a shelf.

It might have been a very short period of time,
Or maybe it might have been long,
When he woke with a buzz like a bee in his ear,
Or the purr of a tom cat's song.
It might be the bizz of a wasp, or the hum,
Of a foraging blue bottle fly,
But no! 'twas the sound of the whizz of a drill!
'Twas then that he opened his eye.

He jumped up in bed, and he cried with an oath,
"What's that, that you're doing, you scamp?"
To a burglar brave, who was sampling his room,
With a bag, jemmy, brace, and a lamp.
Then the burglar grinned in an amicable way,
For a diplomatic cracker was he,
And he wouldn't take offence at the oath of a man,
Who had only awoke, said he,

"I was down at the meetin' an' heerd every word,
When you gave out the socialist pay,
An' I am a bloke wot swears by the truth
Of the beautiful words that you say.
That's whoy I am here, for my slice of the swag,
That you've pinched, by employin' your men.
I'm tottin' up the stock, in a confidential way,
For an equal division of it then,
For mate, I'm a pal of a Socialistic turn,
Wot tries to do everythink straight,
We'll halve them between us, the jewels and coin,
An' make an even deal of the plate."

But out from the bed, with a jump in his shirt,
The candidate sprang to the floor,
Said he, "I may preach, but to practice is bosh!"
And leaped with a shout to the door.
But the cracker of cribs, with a colt in his fist,
Was first, and with that at the nose
Of the candidate, muttered "You'll die of the cold,
If you don't burrow under the clothes!
"So don't make a row," said that burglar brave,
"But jerk into bed out of sight,
I hate to be put upon when I'm at work,
An' Boss, this is my busy night!

"Now jest let me fasten a gag on yer mouth,
You know that it's wrong, to alarm
Your neighbours at night, when they're wantin' to sleep,
Quick! into this noose with each arm,
There! now, with that beautiful knot on your pins,
You cawn't say as how yer to blame,
If I pinch all I can in the regular way,
Of the grabber's contemptible game!"

He opened the safe, and he smashed the bureau,
He looted the drawers, and shelf,
Of the plate, and the clocks, and the watches, and cash,
From the cabinet, quick as an elf.
Slid everything down to his pal, with a rope,
And then he slid down it himself,
They drove with the swag, from the terrace amain,
In a couple of hired out traps;
And the city, was billed on the following day,
With the Special Editions in caps!

* * * * *

'Twas a reasonable period, from the incident above,
That a solemn deputation came down,
For the candidate to speak in a socialistic vein,
To the voters of the east of London town:
"We'll be looking for you there, on waggon No. I.
Near the arch, that's of marble, in the park,"
But he pointed to the door "O tell them that I'm dead;
For cram it! I am not up to the mark,"

Ho! there, pumps and castanets for three,
We would dance a brief measure.

O YOU will wonder why we're here,
And wish that we were far,
By wig, and gown, it doth appear,
We're members of the bar,
And tho' we are, we say to you,
We all of us opine,
That we may justly claim our due,
In an artistic line.
We are the type of one, you know,
As well as we can tell,
He is a burly splendid beau,
A stately howling swell!--
A signor of the lyric stage,
An operatic Don,--
And by similitude, we'll wage
That he, and we are one!

'Tis true, tho' he is mostly stout,
We're nearly always thin,
But if you turn us inside out,
We're stouter men within.
For he is all a puff, and smoke,
A sound that dies away;
But we are they who crack a joke,
That lasts for many a day.

He has his crotchets; we do harp,
On clients, this, and that,
He has his sharps, and we are sharp,
His flats, and they are flat;
He blows away his notes, but we,
Are shrewder men by far,
The notes we get professionly,
We stick them to the Bar!

His quavers, they are nothing to
The rallantando thrills,
That shake our clients, when we screw
The rosin on their bills.
They often simulate, as deaf,
When we do charge a case,
Our time is on the treble cleff,
And their's is on the base.

We make a loud fortissimo,
When pleading in the wrong,
And often pianissimo,
When we should put it strong,
But still we pull our fees the same,
Tho' suits may not be won,
And by our tongue, we conquer fame,
Like that conceited Don.

And to the jury, we do plaint,
Upon a mauling stick,
And from our pallets, clap the paint,
Around their craniums thick,
We mould them from their purpose dense,
Like hods of plastic wax,
And sculp into their common sense,
And then climb down their backs!

Our song is done, for we are brief,
And we will sing no more,--
And to my own intense relief,
I thought they'd take the door,
But no! they did not go, and each,
Put forth his kidded fist,
"While we've been trying thus to teach,
Our fees we almost missed!

Remember this is Christmas eve,
Three Chrismas waits we be,
The more the reason you should give,
Our consultation fee.
We have our instruments, and they
Are of the parchment tough,
With which we play, while men do pay,
We wot we've said enough.

And wherefore, and whereas for this,
Aforesaid, told to thee,
Moreover, we must have, we wis,
Our consultation fee.
Five guineas unto each of us,
Refreshers each, a pound,"--
I rose to kick them into bruss,
They bolted through the ground!

My future suppers, must be free
Of nightmare risk; the cause
Of that cantabile of glee,
On music, art, and laws;
Was merely this, that I did run,
The danger of such rig,
By feeding on a goose, they hatched,
Inside a lawyer's wig.

THE tears were in her eye,
Said I "what makes you cry?"
And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;
For it gives my heart the creep,
To see a woman weep,--
Especially the one to be my Bride.

"Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,
It grieveth me, to see
That trickle, at your nostril, by the side."

"'Twas the onions, I was cutting," she replied.

By A Lyin' KING OF Arms]

WHEN Cha, the first,
Was run to ground,
An Ancestorial
Mite was found;
By Rails in Pale,
At Dexter Chief,
From Judges' wig,
He pipes his grief.

HIS deeds, of later
Life, did tend,
To prove him of
The Sinister Bend;
As boozing Charge,
He takes his place,
From Sinister Chief,
To Dexter Base.

HIS son, did Charge
In Sable Chief,
A Sword, or he
Had come to grief;
That Chief above,
From Sinister, part,
Has got,--per Fesse--
That Sword in Heart!

ANOTHER Son,
Of prudent parts,
Doth Pawn his Arms,
For peaceful arts;
From Dexter or,
On Shield of Gu,
In pale, reguardant
Sinister Jew.

ANOTHER Son,
From want appeald,
To art, for Charge,
On Argent Shield,
And so, upon
His Coat he drew
A Garb, that he
Might dare, and do

HE sought to Void
A hen-coup, he
Is Trussed above it,
On a tree;
Couchant, in Chief,
With Spade, in Fesse,
A sorry wight,
He must confess.

AT length, an Orient
Pile, he took,
Then Counterchanged,
His Coat for luck!
This Dexter treatment,
Is not right;
He's Or, on Ar,
The lawless wight!

BUT ah! at last,
His fate was healed
And by command,
Got Royal Shield;
A Dexter King,
Reguardant, won!
He dyed, and left
An "only Son."

THE man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. But he is to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a hostile army of Savants, Antiquarians, Historians, and Critics: some stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots.

In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers.

I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records.

It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle.

The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to the castle. It was the hour of dinner--but the gates were shut. Shocked at an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of Irish hospitality, she immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse, and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to Connaught, where her own castle stood.

After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner--a practice which is observed to this day."

WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand,
And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand;
On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met,
Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet.

And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,
Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;
And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,
That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.

He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,
Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,
The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,
We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.

For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,
But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,
And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!
I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on."

"O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,
As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,
I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,
I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.

He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,
"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,
Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,
"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."

Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,
They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,
A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,
The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.

Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,
The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,
And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,
With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!

But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,
And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"
Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,
"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"

The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,
Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,
He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,
From information he received, that he had got a clew,

When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make
A profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,
'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,
Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.

As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,
That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,
But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked
Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!

She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then--
And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,
In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,
At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.

Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,
That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,
And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,
There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,--

The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,
And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,
Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"
And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.

* * * * *

And now about the baby, his voyaging began,
Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,
He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,
Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!
Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!
And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,
As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!

Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,
He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,
He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,
But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!

He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,
Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,
He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,
Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!

He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!
The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;
The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,
Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,
Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,
The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,
Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,
He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,
The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,
Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.

Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,
In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display
Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,
Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!

Now most of you will question, the record I recite,
To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,
To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,
When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!

I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,
I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,
I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,
But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.

And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he
Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,
With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,
Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?

A MESSAGE FROM THE C----]

A HORROR OF LONDON TOWN.

ON London streets by a gin shop door,
In the blaze of a noontide sun,
With horrible zest of a thirst for gore,
Was a desperate murder done,
On the sainted flags of a Christian town,
I saw this outrage planned,
And three little boys, in crime, sere brown
Were there with a helping hand.

'Twas a group of seven--I counted them all,
A group of seven strong men,
And summing them up, with the criminals small,
Their total I think was ten,
With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,
They hunted a sad wretch down,
Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,
A shame unto London town!

But while was fought the unequal fight,
That murder of ten to one,
There came an ominous venger of right,
They call him a copper for fun,
And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then
The villians ha! ha! shall see
There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,
In the walls of the Old Bailee!

But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,
And the never a stir, stirred he,
As he saw them compass the deed of blood,
To its end with a ghastly glee,
And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,
Of the suppliant's voice in pain,
As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,
And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"

A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,
I am sure it was loaded with lead,
And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,
He aimed at the victim's head!
Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,
He was struck, and he dropped and died,
And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,
For blood was the caitiff's pride!

But O I proved, ere I wandered home,
There yet was a friend most true,
Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,
Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,
A kind purveyor came walking by,
And he stopped on the edge of the flag,
Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,
"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."

[Decoration]