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, 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; 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! Our arms are red, and our foes are dead, For the bonny, bonny flames! I've often wished, I hope no sin, But no, the Pope no wife may choose, DEAR JACK. DEAR Jack, this white mug that with WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE 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 Dost thou remember Jeames ? I mark thee in the Marble All, 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! COMMANDERS OF THE FAITH. It is the Star of Hope FUL. THE Pope he is a happy man, His Palace is the Vatican, And there he sits and drains his can: And then there's Sultan Saladin, 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?" Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, | Those blushing lips may never sing 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. |