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At ten, before the ball-room door
His moighty Excellency was;

He smoiled and bow'd to all the crowd-
So gorgeous and immense he was.
His dusky shuit, sublime and mute,
Into the doorway follow'd him;
And oh the noise of the blackguard boys,
As they hurrood and hollow'd him!

The noble Chair stud at the stair,

And bade the dhrums to thump; and he Did thus evince to that Black Prince The welcome of his Company. Oh fair the girls, and rich the curls,

And bright the oyes you saw there, was; And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi,

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was!
This Gineral great then tuck his sate,
With all the other ginerals
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat,

All bleezed with precious minerals);
And as he there, with princely air,
Recloinin' on his cushion was,
All round about his royal chair

The squeezin' and the pushin' was.

O Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls,
Such fashion and nobilitee!

Just think of Tim, and fancy him

Amidst the hoigh gentilitee!

There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty


Ministher and his lady there;

And I reckonized, with much surprise,

Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there.

There was Baroness Brunow, that look'd like Juno,

And Baroness Rehausen there, And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar Well in her robes of gauze, in there. There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first When only Mr. Pips he was), And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was.

There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, And Lords Killeen and Dufferin,

And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife

I wondther how he could stuff her in. There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, And seem'd to ask how should I go there;

And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay,

And the marchioness of Sligo there.

Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and pearls,

And pretty girls, was spoorting there; And some beside (the rogues!) I spied

Behind the windies, coorting there.
Oh, there's one I know, bedad, would show
As beautiful as any there;

And I'd like to hear the pipers blow,
And shake a fut with Fanny there!



ОCH! the Coronation! what celebration For emulation can with it compare? When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, And the Duke of Leinster, all in order

did repair!

'Twas there you'd see the new Polishemen

Making a skrimmage at half-after four, And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys,

All standing round before the Abbey door. Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning

.Themselves adorning, all by the candle


With roses and lilies and daffy-down dillies, And gould, and jewels, and rich di'monds


And then approaches five hundred coaches, With Giniral Dullbeak. Och! 'twas

mighty fine

To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, With his sword drawn, prancing, made

them kape the line.

Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of Arums,

All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,

The Prince of Potboys and great haythen Jews; "Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy

All joo'ls from his jasey to his di'mond boots,

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With Alderman Harmer and that swate Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,


The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord

drawn, talking

With eight young ladies houlding up her


Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar The big drums bating and the trumpets blow,

To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great And Sir George Smart! oh! he play'd a


And Sir De Lacy and the Duke Dalmasey (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name),


With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on

a row.

Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden


The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell


dish up

For to resave her bounty and great wealth, Saying, "Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!

The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your


Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Rus- Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed

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Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rs

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Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! Then the trumpets braying and the organ

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But Lord Rolle was rolling;-'twas mighty Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,


To think that his Lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,

Yet not indifferently planned;

Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;-

All on the tombstones like a poultherer's But, as regards the present war,—

Now, don't you think our pride of pence

shop; With lobsters and white-bait, and other Goes-may I say it?-somewhat far


And wine, and nagus, and Imperial Pop! There was cakes and apples in all the


With fine polonies, and rich mellow


Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he

got prog enough,

The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people

Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal |

-Och! if myself should live to be a hun-

Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!

And now I've ended, what I pretended, This narration splendid in swate poethry,

Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Faith, it's myself that's getting mighty dhry!



BE seated, pray. "A grave appeal"?
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—

This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, sir, we connoisseurs, should know
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,

Museums turned to hospitals!

"And worse," you say; "the wide distress!"
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colorists ;-
Speaking of color, next your seat

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Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Esthetically-still reply

That "Charity begins at home.”
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!
"But your appeal's for home," you say,
"For home, and English poor!" Indeed
I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need-
However sore-yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost

At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names;

While here with us-Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope

With all our shrill necessities?
Impossible! One might as well

Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.
Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress,
"Tis-Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A's,

The same applies to B's and C's;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;
And life is short,-I see you look

At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book
They say that Raphael painted it;-
And life is short, you understand;

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; So, If I only hold you out

An open though an empty hand,

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused

Some gushing lady-almoner,-
Believe me, on these very grounds.

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity! That cost me quite three hundred pounds, That Dürer figure,-"Charity."



To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boil'd


Two boil'd potatoes, pass'd through kitchen sieve,

Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole;
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca

And twice with vinegar procured from town;

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,
And loves to disappoint the devil,
Had predetermined to restore
Twofold all he had before;
His servants, horses, oxen, cows-
Short-sighted devil, not to take nis spouse



My Lord Tomnoddy's the son of an Earl;
His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;
His Lordship's forehead is far from wide,
But there's plenty of room for the brains

He writes his name with indifferent ease,
He's rather uncertain about the "d's,"
But what does it matter, if three or one,
To the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son?

My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;
Much time he lost, much money he spent;
Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke
Authorities wink'd-young men will joke!
He never peep'd inside of a book:
In two years' time a degree he took,
And the newspapers vaunted the honors won
By the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son.

My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world:
Waists were tighten'd and ringlets curl❜d,
Virgins languish'd, and matrons smil'd-

And, lastly, o'er the flavor'd compound 'Tis true, his Lordship is rather wild;

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He never drew sword, except on drill;
The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;
A full-blown Colonel at thirty-one
Is the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son!

My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;
The Earl can last but a few years more.
My Lord in the Peers will take his place.
Her Majesty's councils his words will grace
Office he'll hold, and patronage sway;
Fortunes and lives he will vote away;
And what are his qualifications?-ONE!
He's the Earl of Fitzdotterel's eldest son.

AN Austrian army, awfully arrayed,
Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.
Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Dealing destruction's devastating doom.
Every endeavor engineers essay,

For fame, for fortune fighting,-furious fray!

Generals 'gainst generals grapple - gracious God!

How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!

Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,


BACHELOR'S HALL! what a quare-lookin' place it is!

Kape me from sich all the days of my life!

Sure, but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is

Niver at all to be gettin' a wife.

See the old bachelor, gloomy and sad enough,
Placing his taykettle over the fire;
Soon it tips over-St. Patrick! he's mad

(If he were present) to fight wid the squire.

Then, like a hog in a mortar-bed wallowing, Awkward enough, see him knading his


Troth! if the bread he could ate widout swallowing,

How it would favor his palate, you know!

His dishcloth is missing: the pigs are devouring it;

In the pursuit he has battered his shin;

Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred A plate wanted washing: Grimalkin is


Labor low levels longest, loftiest lines;

Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid

murderous mines;

Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing,


Of outward obstacles, opposing ought;

scouring it;

Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in!

His meal being over, the table's left set

ting so;

Dishes, take care of yourselves, if you can!

Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly But hunger returns; then he's fuming and

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