English

A SPORTING ANECDOTE .

M Y Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two, He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim. Was clean of limb,
His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,
He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,

Oh ! the balloon, the great balloon,
It left Vauxhall one Monday at noon,
And every one said we should hear of it soon,
With news from Aleppo or Scanderoon
But very soon after folks changed their tune:
" The netting had burst — the silk — the shalloon; —
It had met with a trade-wind — a deuced monsoon —
It was blown out to sea — it was blown to the moon —
They ought to have put off their journey till June;
Sure none but a donkey, a goose, or baboon
Would go up in November in any balloon!"

Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank:
She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the Bank;
She had jewels and rings, And a thousand smart things;
Was lovely and young, With a rather sharp tongue,
And she wedded a noble of high degree
With the star of the order of St. Esprit ;
But the Duke de Guise. Was, by many degrees,
Her senior, and not very easy to please;
He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,

" LORD ABBOT ! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!"

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
" Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!" —
" Now naye, Fair Daughter," the Lord Abbot said,
" Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be

" There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!

O DILLE was a maid of a dignified race:
Her father, Count Otto, was lord of Alsace;
Such an air, such a grace, Such a form, such a face,
All agreed, 'twere a fruitless endeavour to trace
In the Court, or within fifty miles of the place
Many ladies in Strasburg were beautiful, still
They were beat all to sticks by the lovely Odille.

But Odille was devout, and, before she was nine,
Had " experienced a call" she consider'd divine,
To put on the veil at St. Ermengarde's shrine —

G ENGULPHUS comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,

S T DUNSTAN stood in his ivied tower,
Alembic, crucible, all were there;
When in came Nick to play him a trick,
In guise of a damsel passing fair.
Every one knows. How the story goes:
He took up the tongs and caught hold of his nose.
But I beg that you won't for a moment suppose
That I mean to go through, in detail, to you

Come hither, come hither, my little boy Ned!
Come hither unto my knee —
I cannot away with that horrible din,
That sixpenny drum, and that trumpet of tin.
Oh, better to wander frank and free
Through the Fair of good Saint Bartlemy,
Than list to such awful minstrelsie
Now lay, little Ned, those nuisances by,
And I'll rede ye a lay of Grammarye.

I love thy tower, Grey Ruin,
I joy thy form to see,
Though reft of all, Cell, cloister, and hall,

The Captain is walking his quarter-deck,
With a troubled brow and a bended neck;
One eye is down through the hatchway cast
The other turns up to the truck on the mast;
Yet none of the crew may venture to hint
" Our Skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!

The Captain again the letter hath read
Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead —
Still, since the good ship sail'd away,
He reads that letter three times a-day;
Yet the writing is broad and fair to see
As a Skipper may read, in his degree,

Oh ! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray,
Now his fleeting breath has passed away? —
Seventeen years, I can venture to say,
Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play,
Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay,
As though every one of his months was May,
And the whole of his life one long holiday —
Now he's a lifeless lump of clay,
Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?

I am almost tempted to think it hard
That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard,