Wood will never wear out, thanks to Kyan, to Kyan! Any rafter or plank,- And makes it immortal as Dian, as Dian! If you steep but a thread, It will hang by the head, For ever, the largest old lion, old lion; Or will cord up the trunk Of an elephant drunk; doubt it, yourself go and try 'un, and try 'un. 2. In the days that are gone, As to timber and stone, Decay was by no means a shy 'un, a shy 'un. And our vessels by scores, And the thirsty old rot was a dry 'un, a dry 'un! The dry blast of its breath, As soon as it e'er came a-nigh 'un, a-nigh 'un ; Of that glutton Decay, Since he can't eat his timber with Kyan, with Kyan! 3. Say-now-what shall we steep In the tank? just to keep.— Shakspeare sniffed our great secret, the sly 'un, the sly 'un! Have been Kyan'd, my dear, By Nature's immortal Paul Pry 'un, Paul Pry 'un. Take a plunge from decay? (There is no need for Tell, or for Ion, for Ion ;) I fear he could not Soak away the dry-rot From some things:-But all rests on Kyan, on Kyan. 4. Put the lid on the tank, Not a crack for a plank, While I point out one thing, as I fly on, I fly on, Have a dip 'gainst dry-rot, Stuff with cotton the ears of my Kyan, my Kyan. In a whisper I speak, (But 'twill rain for a week, Or as long as St. Swithin will cry on, will cry on,-) The moment I make Your conviction awake That Vauxhall wants no plunge 'gainst the dry 'un, the dry 'un. Do not dip many books 5. In our our anti-rot nooks; Keep out novels, and all Sense cries Fie on! cries Fie on! In its strife against time, Most heads that we know, will try Kyan, try Kyan. 'Twould do Aldermen Wood, (Elected for life) if they 'd try 'un, they'd try 'un ;- Is as true as the day, And each hint you may safely rely on, rely on ! 6 Then, hurrah! come uncork! This dry-rot is dry work; Bring the bottle, that one I've my eye on, my eye on ; My spirit I'd steep In its rich anti-deep, And linger for morn, like Orion, Orion! 'Gad, the secret is out, We've talk'd so much about; My dog's on the scent,-oh! then hie on, then hie on ! Makes immortal mere deal, And wine's the solution of Kyan, of Kyan! R. THE ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD." WHEN single-speech Hamilton made in the Irish Commons that one memorable hit, and persevered ever after in obdurate taciturnity, folks began very justly to suspect that all was not right; in fact, that the solitary egg on which he thus sat, plumed in all the glory of incubation, had been laid by another. The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is supposed to be the author of a single poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and setting criticism completely at defiance. I say supposed, for the gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John Moore," must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None. I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Britanny, having raised a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, in that unfortunate expedition commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending, against the forces of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that hemisphere. He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL," by his Son, the following lines occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe. Perhaps Wolf Tone may have communicated them to his relative the clergyman on his return from France. Fides sit penès lectorem. P. PROUT. THE ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD." I. Ni le son du tambour...ni la marche funèbre... II. De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre— III. D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS; IV. La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée : Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fût plein ! Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain. V. Au demain ! quand ici oû sa fosse s'apprête, VI. Ils terniront sa gloire...on pourra les entendre fol; Il les laissera dire.-Eh! qu'importe A' SA CENDRE VII. L'œuvre durait encor, quand retentit la cloche VIII. Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement... Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument, Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée ! H GOSSIP WITH SOME OLD ENGLISH POETS. BY CHARLES OLLIER. ALL hail to the octo-syllabic measure! the most cheerful, buoyant, and terse of all metres; at once familiar and refined, and fitted more than any other to the narration of a gay and laughing tale. Lord Byron, who indulged in it not a little, was pleased nevertheless to condemn it for what he called its "fatal facility;" but we believe that its facility is more a matter for the enjoyment of the reader than for the execution of the writer; since, in the latter respect, it seems to demand so much of polish, point, and neatness, as to require, in its very absence of all apparent effort, no little labour in him who would do its claims full justice. Cowper, who was ambitious to excel in this pleasant verse, declared that the " easy jingle" of Mat. Prior was inimitable; but Prior, delightful as his octo-syllabic poetry undoubtedly is, has many rivals, not indeed among his contemporaries, but in poets who preceded and followed him. Shakspeare, for example, in whose boundless riches is found almost every variety of the Muse, has given us abundant specimens of this verse in the prologues to each act of " Pericles, Prince of Tyre," as spoken by the Ghost of old Gower, who, having in his Confessio Amantis, told the story afterwards dramatised by Shakspeare, is evoked from his "ashes" to explain to the spectators the progress of the incidents of the play. The following notturno could hardly have been as pleasantly conveyed in any other measure :— "Now sleep yslacked hath the rout; No din but snores, the house about, Hymen hath brought the bride to bed." Ben Jonson, too, has revelled in this metre: its sweet cheerfulness appears, for the time, to have drawn from his mind its austere and sarcastic qualities, and to have lulled the violence of his wit. Old Ben is, in short, never seen in so happy and amiable a light as when he writes in the octo-syllabic. Here is a specimen : "Some act of Love bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him in my verse; It is enough they once did get But what shall we say of Herrick, the English Anacreon, who fondled this measure with such graceful dalliance? We cannot resist the temptation of making an extract, and of italicising a line or two, that we may enjoy them with the reader : "A sweet disorder in the dresse Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse ; Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye Doe more bewitch me, than when art Mark the ease, the play, the curiosa felicitas, of this exquisite little poem. Could it have been as happy in any other measure? The stern and unflinching patriot, Andrew Marvell, evidently takes delight in the piquant grace of the octo-syllabic. Here is a passage from his poem addressed to the Lord Fairfax, descriptive of the grounds about that nobleman's house, in Yorkshire, called NunAppleton. Speaking of the meadows, Marvell says:— "No scene, that turns with engines strange, Who seem like Israelites to be, Walking on foot through a green sea. With whistling scythe, and elbow strong, The mower now commands the field: Where, as the meads with hay, the plain Like a calm sea it shews the rocks." The poems of Thomas Randolph, a writer of the seventeenth century, are not so well known as they deserve to be. A specimen, therefore, of his treatment of our favourite verse will be some such a novelty as is afforded by the revival of an obsolete fashion. He is addressing his mistress while walking through a grove :— "See Zephyrus through the leaves doth stray, And has free liberty to play, And braid thy locks. And shall I find Less favour than a saucy wind? Now let me sit and fix my eyes On thee that art my paradise. |