discussion of the styles of the different schools of painting; an admirable review of the excellencies of modern artists; and some clever conjectures on the probable merits of the ancients. In the meanwhile, the history of the lovely but unfortunate Mary Stuart was the topic on the other side of the table, and the question soon became general. But my paper is full, and I must abruptly conclude.
BY FREDERICK GOLIGHTLY, ESQ.
"A most delicate monster!"-SHAKSPEARE.
KING ARTHUR, as the Legends sing,
Was a right brave and merry King,
And had a wondrous reputation
Through this right brave and merry nation.
His ancient face, and ancient clothes,
His Tables round, and rounder Oaths,
His crown and cup, his feasts and fights,
His pretty Queen and valiant Knights,
Would make me up the raciest scene,
That is, or will be, or has been.
These points, and others not a few,
Of great importance to the view,
As, how King Arthur valued Woman,
And, how King Arthur threshed the Roman,
And, how King Arthur built a Hall,
And, how King Arthur play'd at ball;
I'll have the prudence to omit,
Since Brevity's the soul of Wit.
Oh! Arthur's days were blessed days,
When all was wit, and worth, and praise;
And planting thrusts, and planting oaks,
And cracking nuts, and cracking jokes,
And turning out the toes, and tiltings,
And jousts, and journeyings, and jiltings,
Lord! what a stern and stunning rout,
As tall Adventure strode about,
Rang through the land! for there were duels
For love of Dames, and love of jewels;
And steeds, that carried Knight and Prince,
As never steeds have carried since;
And heavy Lords and heavy lances;
unfashionable dances;
And endless bustle and turmoil,
In vain disputes for fame or spoil.
Manners, and roads, were very rough;
Armour, and beeves, were very tough;
And then, the brightest figures far
In din or dinner, peace or war;
Dwarfs sang to Ladies in their teens,
And Giants grew as thick as beans!
One of these worthies, in my verse,
mean, Oh! Clio, to rehearse:
He was much talk'd of in his time,
And sung of too in monkish rhyme;
So, lest my pen should chance to err,
I'll quote his ancient chronicler.
Thus Friar Joseph paints my hero:
Addictus caedibus et mero,
Impavidus, luxuriosus.
Preces, jejuniaque perosus,
Metum ubique vultu jactans,
Babes ubique manu mactans,
Tauros pro coena vorans, post has
Libenter edens pueros tastos,
Anglorum, et (ni fallit error)
Ipsius Regis saepe terror,
Equorum equitumque captor,
Incola rupis, ingens raptor
Episcopalium bonorum,—
Damnatus hostis monachorum!
Such was his eulogy! the fact is,
He had a most outrageous practice
Of running riot, bullying, beating,
Behaving rudely, killing, eating;
He wore a black beard, like a Jew's,
And stood twelve feet without his shoes;
He used to sleep through half the day,
And then went out to kill and slay;
At night he drank a deal of grog,
And slept again;-his name was GOG.
He was the son of Gorboduc,
And was a boy of monstrous pluck;
For once, when in a morning early,
He happened to be bruising barley,
A knight came by with sword and
And halted in his mid career :
The youngster look'd so short and pliant,
He never dream'd he was a giant,
And so he pull'd up with a jerk,
And call'd young bruiser from his work:Friend, can you lead me by the rein
To Master Gorboduc's domain?
I mean to stop the country's fears,
And knock his house about his ears!"
The urchin chuckled at the joke,
And grinn'd acutely as he spoke :
"Sir knight, I'll do it if I can,
Just get behind me in my pan,
I'm off,-I stop but once to bait,
I'll set you down before the gate."
Sir Lolly swallow'd all the twang,
He leap'd intothe mortar-bang;
And when he saw him in the vessel,-
Gog beat his brains out with the pestle.
This was esteem'd a clever hit,
And show'd the stripling had a wit;
Therefore his father spared no arts
To cultivate such brilliant parts.
No giant ever went before
Beyond his "two and two made four,"
But Gog possess'd a mind gigantic,
And grasp'd a learning quite romantic.
'Tis certain that he used to sport
The language that they spoke at court;
Had something of a jaunty air,
That men so tall can seldom wear;
Unless he chanc'd to need some victuals,
He was a pleasant match at skittles;
And if he could have found a horse
To bear him through a single course,
I think he might have brought the weight
'Gainst all that Britain counted great.
In physic he was sage indeed,
He used to blister and to bleed,
Made up strange plaisters-had been known
To amputate, or set, a bone,
And had a notable device
For curing colick in a trice,
By making patients jump a wall,
And get a most salubrious fall.
Then in philosophy, 'twas said,
He got new fancies in his head;
Had reckonings of the sea's profundity,
And dreams about the earth's rotundity;
In argument was quite a Grecian,
And taught the doctrine of cohesion.
This knowledge, as one often sees,
Soften'd his manners by degrees;
He came to have a nicer maw,
And seldom eat his mutton raw;
And if he had upon his board
At once a Peasant and a Lord,
He call'd the Lord his dainty meat,
And had him devil'd for a treat.
Old Gorboduc, the Legends say,
Happen'd to go to pot one day:
The how and why remains a question;
Some say he died of indigestion,
From swallowing a little boat,
In drinking dry Sir Toby's moat.
Others assert that Dame Ulrica
(Whom he confined beneath a beaker,
Having removed her from her cottage
To stew her in a mess of pottage)
Upset her prison in the night,
And played Ulysses out of spite,
So that he woke, in great surprise,
With two sharp needles in his eyes.
Perhaps Ulrica may have lied;
At all events-the giant died,
Bequeathing to his son and heir,
Illustrious Gog, the pious care,
To lord it o'er his goods and chattels,
And wield his club and fight his battles.
"Twould take an Iliad, Sirs, to tell
The numerous feats on flood and fell,
At which my hero tried his hand;
He was the terror of the land,
And did a thousand humorous things,
Fit to delight the ear of kings;
I cull what I consider best,
And pass in silence o'er the rest,
There was a Lady sent from Wales,
With quiet sea, and favouring gales,
To land upon the English shore,
And marry with Sir Paladore.
It seems she sail'd from Milford Haven,
On board the Bittern, Captain Craven,
And smiles, and nods, and gratulation,
Attended on her embarkation.
But when the ship got out from land,
The Captain took her by the hand,
And, with a brace of shocking oaths,
He led her to her chest of clothes.
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