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.

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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 upen 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 wiiters such as M. G. Lewis, Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge, and published by subscription.

There is no krowing 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 acry 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."

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.

David Bogue.

:0:

London,

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 retura 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 landing,
And then he couldn't "strode" any higher,
And there he saw Mister Inspector Denning,
Who asked him at once to retire-'ire-'ire.
Suggesting that he should retire.

He tackled the Sergeant and his deputee,
A Messenger too in the Lobby,

When in came a lot of Constabularee,

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.

"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 ine 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.

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.

0:

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.

3

In a ward with one's pals, not locked up in a cell,

To an old hand like me it's a fam-ly-hotel.

In the day-rooms the cuffins we queer at our ease,
And at Darkman's we run the rig just as we please ;
There's your pick 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 goneys up with us they shut,
As ain't up to our lurks, our flash-patter, 10 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, 11 so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.12
But here comes a cuffin-which cuts short my tale,
It's agin rules is screevin'13 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,11 I swear : That long over Newgit their Worships may rule,

As the High-toby, mob, crack and screeve1 model school; For if Guv'ment was here, not the Alderman's Bench, Newgit soon 'ud be bad as "the Pent" or "the Tench."10

Note. We subjoin a Glossary of MR, CRACKSMAN'S lingo :

FANCY PORTRAIT OF A BISHOP FILL-POTS.*

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.

* Henry Phillpotts, Bishop of Exeter, was a notorions controversialist and pamphleteer. He became very unpopular in his diocese owing to his stern and bigoted conduct. He was strongly opposed to the emancipation of the Roman Catholics.

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.