Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-- I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

'Morning Post' ('The Times' won't trust me) help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertis.e.m.e.nt,--that's a never-failing plan.

"WANTED--By a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,-- Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!

My Wife's Cousin.

Decked with shoes of blackest polish, And with shirt as white as snow, After early morning breakfast To my daily desk I go; First a fond salute bestowing On my Mary's ruby lips, Which, perchance, may be rewarded With a pair of playful nips.

All day long across the ledger Still my patient pen I drive, Thinking what a feast awaits me In my happy home at five; In my small one-storeyed Eden, Where my wife awaits my coming, And our solitary handmaid Mutton-chops with care is crumbing.

When the clock proclaims my freedom, Then my hat I seize and vanish; Every trouble from my bosom, Every anxious care I banish.

Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace I go, Till I reach my darling dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico.

"Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?"

Thus I cry, while yet afar; Ah! what scent invades my nostrils?-- 'Tis the smoke of a cigar!

Instantly into the parlour Like a maniac, I haste, And I find a young Life-Guardsman, With his arm round Mary's waist.

And his other hand is playing Most familiarly with hers; And I think my Brussels carpet Somewhat damaged by his spurs.

"Fire and furies! what the blazes?"

Thus in frenzied wrath I call; When my spouse her arms upraises, With a most astounding squall.

"Was there ever such a monster, Ever such a wretched wife?

Ah! how long must I endure it, How protract this hateful life?

All day long, quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at home; And she cannot see her cousins, Even when they kindly come!"

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, Scarce vouchsafes a single word, But, with look of deadly menace, Claps his hand upon his sword; And in fear I faintly falter-- "This your cousin, then he's mine!

Very glad, indeed, to see you,-- Won't you stop with us, and dine?"

Won't a ferret suck a rabbit?-- As a thing of course he stops; And with most voracious swallow Walks into my mutton-chops.

In the twinkling of a bed-post Is each savoury platter clear, And he shows uncommon science In his estimate of beer.

Half-and-half goes down before him, Gurgling from the pewter pot; And he moves a counter motion For a gla.s.s of something hot.

Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, Nor a moderate share of goes; But I know not why he's always Treading upon Mary's toes.

Evermore, when, home returning, From the counting-house I come, Do I find the young Life-Guardsman Smoking pipes and drinking rum.

Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my meal; For I have a wholesome horror Both of powder and of steel.

Yet I know he's Mary's cousin, For my only son and heir Much resembles that young Guardsman, With the self-same curly hair; But I wish he would not always Spoil my carpet with his spurs; And I'd rather see his fingers In the fire, than touching hers.

The Queen in France.

AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD.

PART I.

It fell upon the August month, When landsmen bide at hame, That our gude Queen went out to sail Upon the saut-sea faem.

And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, The like was never seen; And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, And the bauld Lord Aberdeen.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington: Ye daurna gang wi' me: For ye hae been ance in the land o' France, And that's eneuch for ye.

"Ye'se bide at hame, Sir Robert Peel, To gather the red and the white monie; And see that my men dinna eat me up At Windsor wi' their gluttonie."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,-- A league, but barely twa, When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, And the wind began to blaw.

"O weel weel may the waters rise, In welcome o' their Queen; What gars ye look sae white, Albert?

What makes yer ee sae green?"

"My heart is sick, my heid is sair: Gie me a gla.s.s o' the gude brandie: To set my foot on the braid green sward, I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee.

"It's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, But oh, it's ill to bear the thud And pitching o' the saut saut sea!"

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, Till England sank behind, And over to the coast of France They drave before the wind.

Then up and spak the King o' France, Was birling at the wine; "O wha may be the gay ladye, That owns that ship sae fine?

"And wha may be that bonny lad, That looks sae pale and wan I'll wad my lands o' Picardie, That he's nae Englishman."

Then up and spak an auld French lord, Was sitting beneath his knee, "It is the Queen o' braid England That's come across the sea."

"And oh an it be England's Queen, She's welcome here the day; I'd rather hae her for a friend Than for a deadly fae.

"Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, The auld sow in the sty, And bake for her the brockit calf, But and the puddock-pie!"

And he has gane until the ship, As soon as it drew near, And he has ta'en her by the hand-- "Ye're kindly welcome here!"

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek, And syne upon the ither; And he ca'd her his sister dear, And she ca'd him her brither.