I had a pretty garden there, All bordered round with box; But ah! alas! there lived next door A certain Captain Knox.

He took my wife to see the play;-- They had a private box: I jealous grew, and from that day I hated Captain Knox.

I sold my house; I left my wife; And went to Lawyer Fox, Who tempted me to seek redress All from a jury-box.

I went to law, whose greedy maw Soon emptied my strong box; I lost my suit, and cash to boot, All through that crafty Fox.

The name of box I therefore dread, I've had so many shocks; They'll never end; for when I'm dead They'll nail me in a box."

THE RULING POWER.

"Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old, To the very verge of the churchyard mould; Price of many a crime untold; Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

Good or bad, a thousandfold!"

--_T. Hood._

NAHUM FAY ON THE LOSS OF HIS WIFE.

"Just eighteen years ago this day, Attired in all her best array-- For she was airy, young, and gay, And loved to make a grand display, While I the charges would defray-- My _Cara Sposa_ went astray; By night eloping in a sleigh, With one whose name begins with J, Resolved with me she would not stay, And be subjected to my sway; Because I wish'd her to obey, Without reluctance or delay, And never interpose her nay, Nor any secrets e'er betray.

But wives will sometimes have their way, And cause, if possible, a fray; Then who so obstinate as they?

She therefore left my house for aye, Before my hairs had turned to gray, Or I'd sustained the least decay, Which caused at first some slight dismay: For I considered it foul play.

Now where she's gone I cannot say, For I've not seen her since the day When Johnston took her in his sleigh, To his seductive arts a prey, And posted off to Canada.

Now when her conduct I survey, And in the scale of justice weigh, Who blames me, if I do inveigh Against her to my dying day?

But live as long as live I may, I've always purposed not to pay (Contract whatever debts she may) A shilling for her; but I pray That when her body turns to clay, If mourning friends should her convey To yonder graveyard, they'll not lay Her body near to Nahum Fay."

THE RADENOVITCH.

A SONG OF A NEW DANCE.

"Are you anxious to bewitch?

You must learn the Radenovitch!

Would you gain of fame a niche?

You must dance the Radenovitch!

'Mong the noble and the rich, All the go's the Radenovitch!

It has got to such a pitch, All must dance the Radenovitch!

If without a flaw or hitch You can dance the Radenovitch, Though you've risen from the ditch (Yet have learned the Radenovitch), You'll get on without a hitch, Dancing of the Radenovitch.

If for glory you've an itch, Learn to dance the Radenovitch; And, though corns may burn and twitch, While you foot the Radenovitch; In your side though you've a stitch, All along o' the Radenovitch, You will gain an eminence which You will owe the Radenovitch!

Therefore let the Maitre's switch Teach your toes the Radenovitch!"

FOOTMAN JOE.

"Would you see a man that's slow?

Come and see our footman Joe: Most unlike the bounding roe, Or an arrow from a bow, Or the flight direct of crow, Is the pace of footman Joe; Crabs that hobble to and fro, In their motions copy Joe.

Snails, contemptuous as they go, Look behind and laugh at Joe.

An acre any man may mow, Ere across it crawleth Joe.

Trip on light fantastic toe, Ye that tripping like, for Joe; Measured steps of solemn woe Better suit with solid Joe.

Danube, Severn, Trent, and Po, Backward to their source will flow Ere despatch be made by Joe.

Letters to a Plenipo Send not by our footman Joe.

Would you Job's full merit know, Ring the bell, and wait for Joe; Whether it be king or no, 'Tis just alike to lazy Joe.

Legal process none can show, If your lawyer move like Joe.

Death, at last, our common foe, Must trip up the heels of Joe; And a stone shall tell--'Below, Hardly changed, still sleepeth Joe.

Loud shall the final trumpet blow, But the last corner will be Joe!'"

--_G. Hebert._

TO A LADY

WHO ASKED FOR A POEM OF NINETY LINES.

"Task a horse beyond his strength And the horse will fail at length; Whip a dog, the poor dog whines-- Yet you ask for ninety lines.

Though you give me ninety quills, Built me ninety paper-mills, Showed me ninety inky Rhines, I could not write ninety lines.

Ninety miles I'd walk for you, Till my feet were black and blue; Climb high hills, and dig deep mines, But I can't write ninety lines.

Though my thoughts were thick as showers, Plentiful as summer flowers, Clustering like Italian vines, I could not write ninety lines.

When you have drunk up the sea, Floated ships in cups of tea, Plucked the sun from where it shines, Then I'll write you ninety lines.

Even the bard who lives on rhyme, Teaching silly words to chime, Seldom sleeps, and never dines,-- He could scarce write ninety lines.

Well you know my love is such, You could never ask too much; Yet even love itself declines Such a work as ninety lines.

Though you frowned with ninety frowns, Bribed me with twice ninety towns, Offered me the starry signs, I could not write ninety lines.

Many a deed I've boldly done Since my race of life begun; But my spirit peaks and pines When it thinks of ninety lines.

Long I hope for thee and me Will our lease of this world be; But though hope our fate entwines, Death will come ere ninety lines.

Ninety songs the birds will sing, Ninety beads the child will string; But his life the poet tines, If he aims at ninety lines.

Ask me for a thousand pounds, Ask me for my house and grounds; Levy all my wealth in fines, But don't ask for ninety lines.

I have ate of every dish-- Flesh of beast, and bird, and fish; Briskets, fillets, knuckles, chines, But eating won't make ninety lines.

I have drunk of every cup, Till I drank whole vineyards up; German, French, and Spanish wines, But drinking won't make ninety lines.

Since, then, you have used me so, To the Holy Land I'll go; And at all the holy shrines I shall pray for ninety lines.

Ninety times a long farewell, All my love I could not tell, Though 'twas multiplied by nines, Ninety times these ninety lines."

--_H. G. Bell._

We give the following curious old ballad a place here, not only on account of the iteration of rhyme, but also as the original of the macaronic verses on p. 95:

THE WIG AND THE HAT.

"The elderly gentleman's here, With his cane, his wig, and his hat; A good-humoured man all declare, But then he's o'erloaded with fat.

By the side of a murmuring stream This elderly gentleman sat On the top of his head was his wig, And a-top of his wig was his hat.