And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,

Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast,

Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen !

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
The past Year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey-
Days usher'd by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
May be wrung from some wretcheder cousin-
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;

To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—

Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,

The regrets of remembrance to cozen,

And having obtained a New Trial of Time,

Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

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 ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap-alas
His bow enlisted mine!

"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!

Her sorrow on the sentinel

Appear'd to deeply strike :

"Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like."

And soon she pick'd out Peter Stone,
Half turn'd into a corse;

A cannon was his bolster, and

His mattrass 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 Heal,
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.'

"And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest ;--

He had no pity in his heart,

For he had steel'd his breast.

i

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

I call'd for quarter, but, alas!
It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm,

"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 baus and blows,

I throb and ache all over;

I'm quite convinc'd 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!

"O why did I the bounty take
(And here he gasp'd for breath)
My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd
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!

"O 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."

COCKLE v. CACKLE.

THOSE Who much read advertisements and bills Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills,

Call'd Anti-bilious

Which some Physicians sneer at, supercilicus,
But which we are assured, if timely taken,
May save your liver and bacon;
Whether or not they really give one ease,
I, who have never tried,

Will not decide;

But no two things in union go like these

Viz.-Quacks and Pills-save Ducks and Pease.

Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow,

Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,
And friends portended was preparing for
A human Pâté Périgord;

She was, indeed, so very far from well,
Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box

Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks,
And-tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks-
To save her by a Cockle from a shell!
But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us "throw

Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so,
It seem'd to share "the bitterness of Death:"
Rhubarb-Magnesia-Jalap, and the kind—
Senna-Steel-Assa-fœtida, and Squills-
Powder or Draught-but least her throat inclined
To give a course to Boluses or Pills;
No-not to save her life, in lung or lobe,
For all her lights' or all her liver's sake,
Would her convulsive thorax undertake,
Only one little uncelestial globe!