Chancellor ; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling FRESHMEN from the science of mechanics to the application of its theory in the science of war."

ON GRANTA, when the sun was low,
No symptoms lower'd of fearless row,
But all was silent as the flow

Of CAMUS rolling tardily.

But Granta saw another sight,
When Radicals presumed at night,
With Carter's* mutton-wicks to light
Their Caroline's base treachery.
Round Hobson's conduit quick array'd,
Each GOWNSMAN rush'd the cause to aid,
And fast about him each one laid,

With blows that told most terribly.
Then rushing forth the SNOBS among,
Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung,
And loud and clear the market rung,

With shouts of dreadless liberty.

But redder yet shall be each cheek,
And louder yet each tongue shall speak,
And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak
His vengeance most undauntedly.

'Tis rushlight all-but what can shew

The GOWNSMAN from the GoWNSMAN'S foe,
As shouting in thick files they go

To battle all so merrily?

No banners there were waving high,
To cheer the brave to victory,
No pennon floating to the sky,

With rare device wrought curiously.
No plumes of crested pride were seen,
But tassels black of silken sheen,
With gold and silver mix'd between,
Emblems of unanimity!

No sound was heard of martial drum,
No bugle blast, but one wild hum

Floated o'er all: "The SNOBS! they come,

On! on! and meet them cheerily."
And then was shout, and noise, and din,
As rallying forwards poured in,
Hundreds and hundreds to begin

The work of fame so gloriously.

Then rush'd undaunted, to the fight,
The tall-the low-the strong-the light;
And, oh! it was a glorious sight,

That strife of Town and Gown to see.

As fist to fist, rais'd high in air,
And face to face opposed were,
As shone the conflict in the glare

Of lights that told of Bergami.
Then rushed to fight the hardy SOPH,
Regardless of the townsmen's scoff,
As one by one they sallied forth

To war in ambush warily.
Then rush'd the FRESHMAN to essay
His maiden valour in the fray,
And who that valour shall gainsay,
And wrong not such effrontery?

Then with one cry so loud and shrill,

It echoed to the CASTLE HILL,

They charged the SNOBS against their will,

And shouted clear and lustily.

* A noted vendor of wax moulds, short sixes, farthing rushlight and all other wick-ed wares.

Then all distinctions were forgot-
Then, silk and velvet had one lot
With tatter'd stuffs, upon that spot

Which sacred was to bravery.

No signs of fear, no signs of dread,
Of bloody nose or broken head,
Of wretch by Proctors homeward led
For "acting contumaciously.'

No thoughts were there, but such as grace
The memory of that crowded place,
The memory of that gallant race

Who took and gave so heartily.

The combat deepens; on, ye brave,
Who rush to conquest, or to save;
Wave all your stuffs and poplins wave!
And charge with all your chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet,
Dull soon shall be each crowded street,
Responsive, now, to thousand feet
Pursuing on to Victory.

From The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs,
John Hearne, London, 1824.

JENNY-LINDEN.

A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale,

and the Poet Bunn.

ON LIND, when Drury's sun was low,
And bootless was the wild-beast show,
The lessee counted for a flow

Of rhino to the treasury.
But Jenny Lind, whose waken'd sight
Saw Drury in a proper light,
Refused, for any sum per night,

To sing at the Menagerie.
With rage and ire in vain displayed
Each super drew his wooden blade,
In fury half and half afraid,

For his prospective salary.
Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,
And speedily the goosequill drew
With which he is accustomed to
Pen such a deal of poetry.

He wrote the maiden, to remind
Her of a compact she had signed,
To Drury Lane's condition blind,

And threaten'd law accordingly.
Fair as in face in nature, she
Implored the man to set her free,
Assuring him that he should be
Remunerated handsomely.

Two thousand pounds she offered, so
That he would only let her go:

Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No!
With dogged pertinacity.

And now his action let him bring,
And try how much the law will wring
From her to do the handsome thing,
Who had proposed so readily!
The Swedish Nightingale to cage
He fail'd; she sought a fitting stage,
And left him to digest his rage,

And seek his legal remedy.

Then shook the House with plaudits riven,
When Jenny's opening note was given,
The sweetest songstress under heaven
Forth bursting into melody,

But fainter the applause shall grow,
At waning Drury's wild-beast show,
And feebler still shall be the flow

Of rhino to the treasury.
The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,
Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;
Wave, London, all thy 'kerchiefs wave,
And cheer with all thy chivalry.

'Tis night, and still yon star doth run;
But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,
And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn,

And quadrupeds, and company. For Sweden's Nightingale, so sweet, Their fellowship had been unmeet, The sawdust underneath whose feet

Hath been the Drama's sepulchre.

Punch, May 15, 1847.

Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty's Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her début was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired. from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects.

THE BAL MASQUE AT CROCKFORD's.

ON Thursday, ere the time was come
For supper's joys-the guests were glum,
And deep as thunder was the hum

Of thousands polking sullenly.

But Crockford's saw another sight,
When rang the bell at dead of night,
Commanding streams of gas to light

Her supper-room's gay scenery.

In Hart's and Nathan's costumes lent,
Each polkeuse chose some visor'd Gent,
And eagerly the cash was spent,

To join the coming revelry.
Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven,
Then rang the room, with laughter riven,
And loudly were the orders given

For Champagne popping merrily.
But louder yet the noise shall grow,
Ere Crockford's masquers thence shall go,
And faster yet the wine shall flow,

From bottles emptied rapidly.

'Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band
Can sleep's o'er-powering charms withstand,
While Jullien waves his wearied hand,
And leads the final galopade.

The pace now quickens. On, ye slow!
Or crushed by numbers, down you'll go.
Blow, Koenig! loud thy posthorn, blow,
And make the walls re-echo thee!
Few, few, remain that sound to greet,
The dancers rest their burning feet;
And each cab in St. James's-street
Bears home some worn-out reveller.

The Man in the Moon, Vol. 1.

ROW-IN-LONDON.

Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in 1848.
IN London, when the funds were low,

And business was uncommon slow,
The Quadrant only on the go,

And that kept moving sluggishly.

But London saw another sight
When National Guards arrived at night,
And Lumber troopers took to flight,
Across the pavement slippery.

In shirt and stockings fast arrayed,
The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid,
And with the Aldermen essayed

To join the flying Cavalry.

To cut and run they'd stoutly striven,
But back to battle they were driven,
And then the foremost rank was given
The Bunhill Row Artillery.

But bolder yet that troop must grow,
Or, London conquered by the foe,
The Gallic cock will proudly crow

On Temple Bar right merrily.

'Tis morn-but Specials in a swoon,
Won't reach the Mansion House by noon,
Where frantic Gibbs and "pale-faced Moon
Groan in the butler's pan-t-ry.

The combat deepens-on ye brave,
Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave;
Save, Magog! oh, the city save,

And charge with all the Livery.

Few French shall tread where freemen meet
Turtle on Lord Mayor's Day to eat;
But hung on high, with dangling feet,
Swing opposite St. Sepulchre's!

The Puppet Show, September 30, 1848.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD. ON Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitués crowding every row

To hear Limnandier's opera.

But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack chasseurs of Africa.

Alderman Moon.

By servants in my pay betrayed,
Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,
Wrote that a circumstance delayed

His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers with terror riven;
Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;
And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),
Was seized, bold Lamoricière.

But louder rose the voice of woe,
When soldiers sacked each cit's depôt,
And tearing down a helpless foe,

Flashed Magnan's red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave
Is dragged to prison like a knave,
No time allowed the swell to shave,
Or use the least perfumery.

'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son,
(Perchance her spouse's too) has won
The imperial crown. The French are done,
Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet ; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet ! And every serf beneath my feet

Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.

These lines on the Coup d'Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon's paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun.

HOHEN-LONDON.

The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence.

IN LONDON, when folks' taste was low,
They used to like the Lord Mayor's show;
But now 'tis voted very slow-

A dull affair, decidedly.

But London showed another sight,

When the Queen came on Wednesday night,
Escorted, through a blaze of light

To join the City revelry.

At every window smart array'd,
Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade;
And all the populace hoorayed

To see the Royal pageantry.

Then shook St. Paul's, with shouting riven;
Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven;
And still more stunning cheers were given
By noisy British loyalty.

But noisier yet the crowd will grow,
Through King Street, as the Queen shall go
To Guildhall, there-on gouty toe-

To see her hosts dance heavily.
The concourse thickens! Heroes brave,
Who flash the bull's eye on the knave,
Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave,
And charge them with the cavalry.
The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun!
As to a ball, the Sovereign's done!
Except her suite, there's room for none
To dance before her Majesty.

Few, few can polk where many meet,
And have no space to kick their feet;
The Hop a failure was complete;
The Supper went off decently.

Punch, July 19, 1851.

SWINDON.

AT Swindon when the night drew nigh,
Few were the trains that went thereby,
And very dreary was the sigh,

Of damsels waiting dolefully.
But Swindon saw another sight,
When the train came at dead of night,
Commanding oil and gas to light

Much stale confectionery.

By soups and coffee fast allured,
Each passenger his choice secured,
Excepting those lock'd in, immured

By sly policeman's treachery.

Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven;
Then vanished buns, in pieces riven;
And louder than the orders given,

Fast popped the beer artillery.
But farther yet the train shall go,
And deeper yet shall be their woe,
And greater horrors shall they know,

Who bolt their food so speedily. Time's up; but scarce each sated one Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun, Where curious tart and heavy bun

Lie in dyspeptic sympathy.
The combat thickens. On, ye brave!
Who scald your throats, in hope to save
Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave

Will charge for all he ladles ye!
Few, few, digest where many eat,
The nightmare shall wind up their feat,
Each carpet bag beneath their seat
Shall seem a yawning sepulchre.

HOTEL SWINDLING.

ANONYMOUS.

IN Dover, when my purse was low,
One luckless night, 'twixt sheets of snow,
At an hotel most travellers know,

Did I, Sir, slumber cosily.
But Dover shock'd at morn my sight
With such a bill for that brief night,
Such whacking sums for wax to light
The darkness of its hostelry !
My tea and crumpets' cost array'd,
That a rogue drew the bill betray'd,
And furious overcharges made,

The whole a dreadful robbery.
Then shrank my purse, to plunder given :
Then wagg'd my tongue, to scolding driven;
And at these scamps, on cheating thriven,
Fierce flash'd my eyes' artillery.
But fiercer yet did those eyes glow,
When reft of means " express" to go,
From Dover, in the third-class low,
Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly.

SIC VOS, NON VOBIS, VERSIFICATIS AVE.
AT Seacliff, when the time passed slow,
And summer's sun refused to show,
Relentless was the steady flow

Of raindrops pattering drearily.
But Seacliff saw another sight,
The band struck up at ten at night,
And Volunteers in leggings tight,

Awoke the dance right cheerily.
By willing steward's friendly aid
The warrior sought the smiling maid,
And charged, as each musician played,
Adown the hall, hung tastily.
Then shook the floor to twinkling feet,
While some did dance and some did eat,
Or strove to stay the increasing heat
By swallowing ices hastily.

But shorter yet these lights shall burn,
And faster yet the waltzers turn,
Before the chaperones discern

That day is surely slipping in.

'Tis morn; but all that's young and fair Of Seacliff beauties linger there,

Full loath to seek the outer air

And leave the hall they're tripping in.

BELTON.*

(August 12, 1863.)

AT Belton, ere the twilight grew,
Untrodden was the avenue,

Save by Papas and Mas a few

With their sight-seeing progeny.
But Belton saw another sight,
When the mob came at nine at night,
And with a thousand flambeaux light
Illumined all her scenery.

With od'rous torch and British cheer,
To Brownlow's home they drew them near,
His Lordship's honour- not his beer-
The motive of their revelry.

Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its
Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,

'Twould beat e'en Burton tap to fits,

Though Bass be its auxiliary.

And hours that amber stream shall flow,
And men shall come and scorn to go,
The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,

Though quarts it empties rapidly.
'Tis midnight. For one "level son,"
A hundred bawl they "havn't done,"
And as the barrels run and run,

Shout in their beery jollity. The beer grows thicker: now they goThey could not drink for aye, you know-Grantham thy banners (calico)

Should wave o'er these (thy chivalry ?). Few, few can stand, though all have feet, They need no counterpane or sheet, When ev'ry turf that e'er they meet Destroys a perpendicular.

"We hope," they said with glistening eye,

"You'll still allow us to supply

All articles you want; we'll try

To please you, sir, in every way."

Oh! rare and comic was the fun
To see each humbly cringing dun,
The oily and the sugary one,

All full of meek apology.

I paid their bills upon the spot,
And the receipts from each I got,
And then I looked at all the lot,

As they stood bowing smilingly.
"Get out each fawning drivelling knave,"
I shouted out with features grave;
My hand towards the door I wave,
And clench it simultaneously.

I heard the sound of hurrying feet Haste down the stairs and up the street, And then in fits of laughter sweet,

I went off unrestrainedly.

From Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874.

Ho! IN PRINCE'S.

AT PRINCE'S when the sun is low,
See all the fashion skating go,
And bright and brilliant is the flow,
Of ladies rinking rapidly.
Ah! Prince's is a splendid sight,
From break of day till fall of night,
For all combine to render bright,

The dull surrounding scenery.

In gorgeous dresses see arrayed,
The haughty dame, the tender maid,
Who join, with not a thought dismayed,
The fascinating revelry.

From morn till eve a throng is found,
Of rapid rinkers rolling round,
Amid the light and joyous sound

Of music's varied melody.
Then on, ye fair ones, one by one,
Who rink for fashion, or for fun,
From early morn till setting sun

You'll always meet with chivalry.

And if, perchance at fearful pace,
You charge another face to face,
Then cry, when in that close embrace,
"Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,"

Few will forget the hours sweet,

They spent with skates upon their feet,
Nor friends that they were wont to meet
At Prince's, rinking rapidly.

From Idyls of the Rink. London: Judd & Co., 1876.

THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER. THAT fatal eve, as darkness died, It spann'd the Firth in conscious pride, And far beneath it rolled the tide

Of Tay, lamenting sullenly. But later met that bridge its doom, When fiery showers pierced the gloom, To light to their tempestuous tomb,

A wild despairing company.

Struck midway by the raging blast,
The girders crash'd and crumbled fast,
And down that living freight was cast
Into a sea of agony.

Lost was the falling metals roar
Amid the elemental war,

And fast the flaming sparks flew o'er
The chasm's dense obscurity.

But soon those sparks are lost to sight,
Quenched in the river's rayless night,
And still rejoicing in his might,

Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly.

'Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make
Her way where seething billows break,
And still the winds and waters shake
The heavens in their rivalry.

Though darker yet the airy dome,
Speed, gallant ship, across the foam !
On! on! Dundee ! and gather home
Those wrecks of frail humanity!
But none shall wake where many sleep,
Their bier shall be the trackless deep;
And ever shall the surges sweep

Above their lonely sepulchre.

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.

The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost.

ERIN-LIEDER.

IN Erin where the Praties grow
When rents were high and prices low
Ejected Paddies had to go,

Across the ocean rapidly.

But Erin saw another sight,
When tenants struck for tenant right,
And gallant Parnell led the fight,

Against a Landlord tyranny.

By torch-light leaders were conveyed
To platforms, furious speeches made,
And every tenant farmer bade,

To "hold the harvest" steadily,
Few, few the rents that any got,
And if an Agent was not shot,
He had to undergo Boycott-
Ing, by a furious peasantry.

J. M. LOWRY, 1884.

It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the Greenock Advertiser, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation "that it did not come up to the Editor's standard, and that poetry was evidently not the forte of the contributor."

A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, "Prælium Lindenium" by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the Sabrina Corolla, 1850.