Dock all the dock-yards, lower masts and sails,
Search foot by foot the Infantry's amounts,
Look into all the Cavalry's accounts,

And crop their horses' tails.

Look well to Woolwich and each Money-vote, Examine all the cannons' charges well,

And those who found th' Artillery compel To forge twelve-pounders for a five-pound note. Watch Sandhurst too, its debts and its Cadets— Those Military pets.

Take Army-no, take Leggy Tailors Down to the Fleet, for no one but a nincum Out of our nations narrow income

Would furnish such wide trousers to the Sailors.

Next take, to wonder him,

The Master of the Horse's horse from under him ; Retrench from those who tend on Royal ills Wherewith to gild their pills.

And tell the Stag-hound's Master he must keep The deer, &c., cheap.

Close as new brooms

Scrub the Bed Chamber Grooms;

Abridge the Master of the Ceremonies
Of his very moneys;

In short, at every salary have a pull,
And when folks come for pay

On quarter-day,

Stop half and make them give receipts in full.

Oh, Mr. Hume, don't drink,

Or eat, or sleep, a wink,

Till you have argued over each reduction :

Let it be food to you, repose and suction;

Though you

should make more motions by one half

Than any telegraph,

Item by item all these things enforce,

Be on your legs till lame, and talk till hoarse ;
Have lozenges-mind, Dawson's-in your pocket,
And swing your arms till aching in their socket;
Or if awake you cannot keep,

Talk of retrenchment in your sleep;

Expose each Peachum, and show up each Lockit-
Go down to the M.P.'s before you sup,
And while they're sitting blow them up,
As Guy Fawkes could not do with all his nous;
But now we live in different Novembers,

And safely you may walk into the House,

First split its ears and then divide its members!

[The following poem was written for "The New Sporting Magazine."]

JARVIS AND MRS. COPE.

A DECIDEDLY SERIOUS BALLAD.

IN Bunhill Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mrs. Cope;
A pious woman she was call'd,
As Pius as a Pope.

Not pious in its proper sense,
But chatt'ring like a bird
Of sin and grace-in such a case
Mag-piety's the word.

Cries she, "The Reverend Mr. Trigg
This day a text will broach,
And much I long to hear him preach,
So, Betty, call a coach."

A bargain though she wish'd to make,

Ere they began to jog

"Now, Coachman, what d'ye take me for?" Says Coachman, "for a hog."

But Jarvis, when he set her down,
A second hog did lack—
Whereas she only offered him
One shilling and "a track."

Said he, "There ain't no tracks in Quaife,
You and your tracks be both-"
And, affidavit-like, he clench'd

Her shilling with an oath.

Said she, "I'll have you fined for this,
And soon it shall be done,

I'll have you up at Worship Street,
You wicked one, naught one!"

And sure enough at Worship Street
That Friday week they stood;
She said bad language he had used,
And thus she "made it good."

"He said two shilling was his fare,
And wouldn't take no less---
I said one shilling was enough,-
And he said C-U—S!

"And when I raised my eyes at that,

He swore again at them,

I said he was a wicked man,
And he said D-A-M."

Now Jarvy's turn was come to speak,

So he stroked down his hair,

"All what she says is false-cause why!

I'll swear I never swear!

Now here his worship stopp'd the case—
Said he "I'll fine you both!
And of the two-why Mrs. Cope's

I think the biggest oath?"

[At the close of the June of this year Miss Fanny Kemble took a farewell of her admirers at Covent Garden, previous to her departure for America. The following verses by my father appeared in the “Athenæum” of the 7th July. Reynolds wrote an answer to them afterwards, under the signature of "Curl-Pated Hugh." My father and he at this time seemed very fond of this poetical cross-firing;* and this it is that leads me to suspect that the "Reply to a Pastoral Poet," here given, which my father capped with "An Answer to Pauper," was the production of Reynolds.]

MISS FANNY'S FAREWELL FLOWERS.

Not "the posie of a ring."

SHAKESPEARE (all but the not).

I CAME to town a happy man:

I need not now dissemble
Why I return so sad at heart-

It's all through Fanny Kemble :
Oh! when she threw her flowers away,
What urged the tragic slut on
To weave in such a wreath as that,
Ah me! a bachelor's button.

None fought so hard, none fought so well,
As I to gain some token-

When all the pit rose up in arms,

And heads and hearts were broken;

There was one long duel about the respective merits of "eyes of black" and " eyes of blue." I have not been able to discover any of the

poems.

VOL. VI.

15