Within, a crowd; without, a blank;
There is naught but empty air.
But hark! a crash! like lightning-flash
Sink gallery and wall,

Pillar, and roof, and portico,

In one continuous fall!

The palace like a baseless dream,
Had melted all away;

And crushed beneath the crumbling mass,
Prince, guests, and courtiers lay.

And thus the Doric demigods

Their scornéd power displayed; And thus the Twins, by poet sung, Their darling poet paid.

THE LAY Of SIR LYTTON. (Very much) after Macaulay.

THE b'hoys from swate ould Ireland,
With awful oaths they swore,
The Envoy of the Saxons should
Make fun of them no more.
With awful oaths they swore it,
And no end of row made they,
And sent bill-stickers up and down,
All around throughout the town.
To summon their array.

Up and down and all about
The bill-stickers have sped,
And porter-house and shanty
The flaming call have read
Such as can read that is to say,

The rest have heard the news
And those who cannot read can run
With or without their shoes.
Shame on the false Milesian

Who lingers anyhow,

When Doheny the fugitive,

Gives orders for a row.

The rioters and rowdies

Are pouring in amain

From many a noisy grog-shop,
And many a dirty lane,

From many a mouldy office where,
The pettifogger blooms,

And waits his prey from day to day
In precincts of the Tombs.

But in the Sixth Ward chiefly

The news was spread about, And from the Sixth Ward chiefly Did the rabble crew turn out; The "Bloody Sixth" where KELLY rules The roast triumphantly,

And by his Aldermanic rights

Sets drunken loafers free.

Thence mustered many a lusty wight,
The Saxon's fierce defier
Across the water taking care
To put himself no nigher-
Who in the prime of Tammany
Had often played his part,
And proved himself a "Dimmocrat"
Of hand and eke of heart.
And on the three election days

Was wont the brunt to bide,
To mob the polls and block the ways,
And thrash the Whigs beside -

Or if he could not thrash, at least
His foemen to abuse

And swell with pride the sturdy train
Of brawling bigot Hughes.

According to the programme,

To dignify the affair,

Ned Butler the confederate,

Was called unto the chair,

At his right hand stood the Doheny

(If we thus accent the name),

And at his left the people's man
Of subterranean fame.

Who never looked more proud, 'tis said,
And glad of his array,

Not even on the hallowed morn
Of that eventful day,

When Blackwell's famous island
Received him to her breast;
And oped in joy her granite gates
To greet the glorious guest.

Then up and spake the Doheny,
"My friends, we will disgrace
This minion of the Saxon,
Who talks ill of our race,
He says the Celts are barbarous,
And also given to lie;
Considerably uncivilized'

The wretched foreign spy!

Unruly and disorderly

Of course he must mean us.
Three groans for Henry Bulwer, then!
I move we raise a muss!"

And then (to take a little horn) the speaker made a pause,
And great was the excitement, and terrific the applause;
And curses loud and deep were called down on Sir
Henry's head,

And Doheny began again, and this MEMORIAL read: The Boys of Knockdownmany and Killmare,

To His Excellency President Fillmore,

The hesitating modesty proverbial to our race,

Would hinder us from thrusting our nose where we've

no right to,

But the present is so flagrant and remarkable a case, That it's what we are in honor bound to talk about, and fight, too.

We've all been so insulted by Sir Henry, the Ambassador, That Your Excellency 'll see it's quite impossible to pass

it o'er.

He says that Celts are barbarous, will forge as well as steal.
Are vicious and uncivilized, and not at all genteel.
And by the Celts he means ourselves, because we're
Saxon-haters

(Though but for sons of Saxon men we'd been hard up for taters),

And many of us have thriven in this Saxon-settled land, And all of us have multiplied, till we're a goodly band, And throw a fourth of Gotham's votes, be pleased to understand.

And some of us are lawyers, and have risen to rank and riches

What a bloody shame to say of us we don't wear any

breeches!

And since we tolerate the laws and keep them

we must,

when

And though you all are heretics, don't tread you in the dust, Considering these services, we've not the smallest doubt That you'll proceed immediately to kick this Bulwer out; And if it should bring on a war, we're ready for the slaughter,

We'll talk as big, and run as fast, as we did across the water, And so of course Your Excellency will do all that's right, And we, your said memorialists, will ever swear and fight. "Ever pray" was too pacific for the order of the night, So they amended as above, which pleased the meeting quite.

A SPECIMEN OF THE PUFF POE

TICAL.

Spirit of the Times, July 1851.

I HAVE a friend one P. C. K —, Who selleth the best of all Champagne. Champagne wine is good I wot, Whether the weather be cold or hot;

When Boreas blows

And you're almost froze

From the tip of your nose

To the tips of your toes,

Then how your heart glows as the beverage flows
That makes you see everything couleur de rose
Or in the dog-days

When the sun's fierce rays

Set all in a blaze

And your blood seems to boil

And your butter turns oil

And the freshest of chops and steaks will spoil
And your face grows brown.

And your collars drop down

And there is n't a soul that you know left in town,
Save in Wall Street, where brokers, by way of preparing

For the still hotter temperature whither they're faring
Keep shaving and cornering, bulling and bearing,
(If the Editor shrinks

From this stanza, and thinks

Such an insinuation might possibly stop all his
Circulation in this one commercial metropolis.
Why then he may just

Leave it out and be blessed,

--

Or fill up with asterisks as he likes best)
And your poor tired muse

Beseechingly wooes

The balmiest breezes of eve to come at her

In short, under every stage of thermometer

All times and all seasons are good for Champagne
Especially that of P. C. K. -

Some years ago there was going on
A great deal of talk about Du Brimont
And after that again years a few

There was still more talk about Cordon Bleu
And 'tis now the fashion to talk about Mumm
(The very name says, in its praises be dumb)
And some about Heidseck will prate for a week (it
Might hide very long before I would seek it)
And your grave Bostonian so stately of pace,
With second hand English writ in his face,
Of whom you may say without any libel, he
Claims to be master of omne scibile
And in every thing to be men's guider

Will talk to you half an hour about Schreider;
At one time Bacchanals all confest
That Brigham's Sillery was the best,
It used to gladden me when I spied
His grape leaf gilt on a bottle's side