1841.

And what care we for war and wrack,
How kings and heroes rise and fall;
Look yonder,* in his coffin black,

There lies the greatest of them all!

To pluck him down, and keep him up,
Died many million human souls;
'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup,
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals.

He captured many thousand guns;

He wrote "The Great" before his name;

And dying, only left his sons

The recollection of his shame.

Though more than half the world was his,
He died without a rood his own;

And borrow'd from his enemies
Six foot of ground to lie upon.

He fought a thousand glorious wars,

And more than half the world was his,
And somewhere, now, in yonder stars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.

* This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the Second Funeral of Napoleon.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

THE noble king of Brentford

Was old and very sick,

He summon'd his physicians

To wait upon him quick;
They stepp'd into their coaches
And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;

They drench'd him and they bled him:

They could not cure his ill.

"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,

I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate
The lawyer did obey;

The thought of six-and-eightpence,

Did make his heart full gay.
"What is't," says he, " your majesty
Would wish of me to-day ?"

"The doctors have belabour'd me
With potion and with pill:
My hours of life are counted,
O man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
I want to make my will.

"While Tom his legal studies

Most soberly pursues,

Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A-dawdling with the Muse:
While Tom frequents his banker,
Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies,
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;
Ah, cruel fate, why made you
My children differ thus ?
Why make of Tom a dullard,
And Ned a genius?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits:

"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir lawyer, as befits;

And portion both their fortunes

Unto their several wits."

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it
Was writ and signed and closed;

He bade the lawyer leave him,

And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard

The good old King reposed.

Tom, dress'd in crape and hatband,

Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings

Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping,

He falter'd in his walk;

Tom never shed a tear,

But onwards he did stalk,

As pompous, black, and solemn,
As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford

That gentle king and justWith bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill);
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I pry'thee read the will.”

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;

And all the Brentford family
Sate eager round about:

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,

But Tom had ne'er a doubt.