The marts of silk and lace

Bird's drums are filled with figs, and mute, And I-I've got a substitute

To Soldier in my place!

"NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW."

A NEW VERSION.

IN his bed, bolt upright,

In the dead of the night,

The French Emperor starts like a ghost! By a dream held in charm,

He uplifts his right arm,

For he dreams of reviewing his host.

To the stable he glides,

For the charger he rides;

And he mounts him, still under the spell;

Then, with echoing tramp,

They proceed through the camp,

All intent on a task he loves well

Such a sight soon alarms,

And the guards present arms,
As he glides to the posts that they keep;
Then he gives the brief word,

And the bugle is heard,

Like a hound giving tongue in its sleep.

Next the drums they arouse,
But with dull row-de-dows,

And they give but a somnolent sound;
Whilst the foot and horse, both,

Very slowly and loth,

Begin drowsily mustering round.

To the right and left hand,

They fall in, by command,

In a line that might better be dress'd;
Whilst the steeds blink and nod,

And the lancers think odd

To be rous'd like the spears from their rest.

With their mouths of wide shape,
Mortars seem all agape,

Heavy guns look more heavy with sleep;
And, whatever their bore,

Seem to think it one more

In the night such a field day to keep.

Then the arms, christened small,

Fire no volley at all,

But go off, like the rest, in a doze ;

And the eagles, poor things,

Tuck their heads 'neath their wings,

And the band ends in tunes through the nose.

Till each pupil of Mars

Takes a wink like the stars

Open order no eye can obey:

If the plumes in their heads

Were the feathers of beds,
Never top could be sounder than they!

So, just wishing good night,
Bows Napoleon, polite;
But instead of a loyal endeavour
To reply with a cheer;

Not a sound met his ear,

Though each face seem'd to sav "Nap for ever!"

QUEEN MAB.

A LITTLE fairy comes at night,

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown,

With silver spots upon her wings,

And from the moon she flutters down.

She has a little silver wand,

And when a good child goes to bed She waves her wand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things,
Of fountains filled with fairy fish,

And trees that bear delicious fruit,
And bow their branches at a wish:

Of arbours filled with dainty scents

From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun,

And glow-worms shining in the shade:

And talking birds with gifted tongues,
For singing songs and telling tales,
And pretty dwarfs to show the way
Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed,

From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes,
And tigers growl, a dreadful noise,
And ogres draw their cruel knives,

To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown,

Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air,

And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.

ODE TO DR. KITCHENER

YE Muses nine inspire

And stir up my poetic fire;
Teach my burning soul to speak
With a bubble and a squeak!

Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing,

Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring.

O culinary sage!

(I do not mean the herb in use,

That always goes along with goose)
How have I feasted on thy page:
"When like a lobster boil'd the morn
From black to red began to turn,”

Till midnight, when I went to bed,

And clapt my tewah-diddle on my head.

Who is there cannot tell,

Thou leadest a life of living well?

"What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire

Lives half so well as a holy Fry-er?"

In doing well thou must be reckon'd

The first, and Mrs. Fry the second;

་

And twice Job,-for, in thy fev'rish toils,

Thou wast all over roasts-as well as boils.

Thou wast indeed no dunce,

To treat thy subjects and thyself at once:
Many a hungry poet eats

His brains like thee,

But few there be

Could live so long on their receipts.

What living soul or sinner

Would slight thy invitation to a dinner,

Ought with the Danaides to dwell,

Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear

For ever in his ear

The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.

Immortal Kitchener! thy fame

Shall keep itself when Time makes game Of other men's-yea, it shall keep, all weathers, And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen feathers. Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly!

Thy name shall perish never,

But be magnified for ever

-By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly.