THE ALMACK'S ADIEU.

YOUR Fanny was never false-hearted,

And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House!

I blushed when you asked me to marry,
I vowed I would never forget;
And at parting I gave my dear Harry
A beautiful vinegarette !

We spent en province all December,

And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member,

Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses,

Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!

At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisois moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances,

And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver

I felt as she danced the last set; And you gave, O mon Dieu! to revive her

My beautiful vinegarette !

Return, love! away with coquetting;
This flirting disgraces a man!
And ah! all the while you're forget-
ting

The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from those Circes,

Reviens, for a nice little chat; And I've made you the sweetest of

purses,

And a lovely black satin cravat!

WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN.

WHEN the moonlight's on the mountain

And the gloom is on the glen, At the cross beside the fountain

Well shot, well shot, old Ned!
Well struck, well struck, black
James!

Our arms are red, and our foes are dead,
And we leave a ship in flames !
Hurrah!

For the bonny, bonny flames!

I've often wished, I hope no sin,
That I were Sultan Saladin.

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

DEAR JACK.

Guinness I fill,

And drink to the health of sweet Nan

of the Hill,

Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial

a sot

As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot

In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,

And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass.

One morning in summer, while seated so snug,

In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug,

Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did

appear,

And said, "Honest Thomas, come take

your last bier."

We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can,

From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.

HAZURE SEAS.

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

Dost thou remember Jeames ?

I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England's loveliest shine-
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems

And then I hask, with weeping lips,

Dost thou remember Jeames!

Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures There is a lonely sperrit-call

That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; but ar!

FUL.

THE Pope he is a happy man,

His Palace is the Vatican,

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

And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
He has a hundred wives at least,
By which his pleasure is increased :

KING CANUTE.

KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing

more;

And he thought upon his actions,

walking by the wild sea-shore.

'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps se

date, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, all the officers of state.

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing

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

But that day a something vexed him,

that was clear to old and young: Thrice his Grace had yawned at table,

when his favorite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue.

"Something ails my gracious master,"

cried the Keeper of the Seal. "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys

served to dinner, or the veal?" "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch, "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.

"Tis the heart, and not the dinner,

fool, that doth my rest impair: Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care? Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary."

Some one cried, "The King's arm-chair!"

Then towards the lackeys turning,

quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen able-bodied;

Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.

"Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, 66 over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?" Loudly all the courtiers echoed

"Where is glory like to thine?"

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!

Our

The

Sing

the glories of our line: ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls,

spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.

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.