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Is really but a sprat;

With sandy hair and grayish eyes—
There's no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,
Or long-sword hanging down;

He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;

His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,

Lord Byron-like-he's not a Bard—
There's no Romance in that!

He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then-he's worth a plum.

He talks of stocks and three per cents,
By way of private chat,

Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents-
There's no Romance in that!

I sing no matter what I sing,

Di Tanti-or Crudel,

Tom Bowling, or God save the King,

Di piacer-All's well;

He knows no more about a voice

For singing than a gnat―

And as to Music" has no choice "

There's no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,
He never serenades;

He writes, and sends it by the post,
He doesn't bribe the maids :

No stealth, no hempen ladder-no!
He comes with loud rat-tat,

That startles half of Bedford Row-
There's no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee-just two cups,

And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.

John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat;

My lover bows, and says good night—
There's no Romance in that!

I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent,
My Aunt she quite approves,
My Brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves;
On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,

Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place-
There's no Romance in that!

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

TO WATERLOO, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,

If I shall find him here?

I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came
With ribbons all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap-Alas!
His bow enlisted mine!

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They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kept-
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel
Appeared to deeply strike :-
"Walk in," he said, "among the dead,
And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,
Half turned into a corse;
A cannon was his bolster, and
His mattress was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

Lord, here has been a skrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette

As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell

Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance
At Brussels was to be ;-
Instead of opening a ball,
A ball has opened me.

"Its billet every bullet has,
And well it does fulfil it ;—
I wish mine hadn't come so straight,
But been a crooked billet.'

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"And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest ;-
He had no pity in his heart,
For he had steeled his breast.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance,
Began to thrust away;

I called for quarter, but, alas!
It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint :

O Patty dear, it was no joke,
Although it had a point.

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"With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do

But soon by charging over me,

The Coldstream brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over;

I'm quite convinced the field of Mars
Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn

For any royal Guelph ?

I might have been a butcher, and

In business for myself!

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"O why did I the bounty take
(And here he gasped for breath)
My shillingsworth of list is nailed
Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie
And sleep my sleep eternal:
Not ev❜n a shell-my only chance
Of being made a Kernel!

“() Patty dear, our wedding bells
Will never ring at Chester!
Here I must lie in Honour's bed,
That isn't worth a tester!

"Farewell, my regimental mates,
With whom I used to dress!
My corps is changed, and I am now,
In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have
No dying consolations,
Except, when I am dead, you'll go
And see th' Illuminations."

SHOOTING PAINS.

"The charge is prepared."-MACHEATH.

IF I shoot any more I'll be shot,
For ill-luck seems determined to star me,
I have marched the whole day

With a gun,-for no pay

Zounds, I'd better have been in the army!

What matters Sir Christopher's leave;
To his manor I'm sorry I came yet!

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