PLAYING AT SOLDIERS.

"WHO'LL SERVE THE KING?"

AN ILLUSTRATION.

WHAT little urchin is there never
Hath had that early scarlet fever,
Of martial trappings caught?
Trappings well call'd—because they trap
And catch full many a country chap
To go where fields are fought !

What little urchin with a rag
Hath never made a little flag,

(Our plate will show the manner,)
And wooed each tiny neighbour still,
Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will,
To come beneath the banner!

Just like that ancient shape of mist,
In Hamlet, crying, ""List, O 'list!"
Come, who will serve the king,
And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead
And cut off Boneyparty's head?—
And all that sort of thing.

So used I, when I was a boy,
To march with military toy,

And ape the soldier's life ;-
And with a whistle or a hum,
I thought myself a Duke of Drum
At least, or Earl of Fife.

With gun of tin and sword of lath,
Lord! how I walk'd in glory's path
With regimental mates,

By sound of trump and rub-a-dubs—

To 'siege the washhouse-charge the tubs― Or storm the garden gates.

Ah me! my retrospective soul !
As over memory's muster-roll
I cast my eyes anew,

My former comrades all the while
Rise up before me, rank and file,
And form in dim review.

Ay, there they stand, and dress in line,
Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine,
And dark "Jamaeky Forde!"

And limping Wood, and "Cockey Hawes,"
Our captain always made, because

He had a real sword!

Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, Who said he had a gun at home,

But that was all a brag;

Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham

A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb
That would hold up the flag!

Tom Anderson, and "Dunny White,"
Who never right-abouted right,

For he was deaf and dumb;

Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray
And Dickey Bird, that wouldn't play
Unless he had the drum.

And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp,
A chap that never kept the step-
No more did "Surly Hugh;"
Bob Harrington, and "Fighting Jim "-
We often had to halt for him,

To let him tie his shoe.

"Quarrelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick The plumes within his hat;

Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout That got so thump'd for calling out "Eyes right!" to "Squinting Matt."

Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd,
Was always in the awkward squad,
And those two greedy Blakes,

That took our money to the fair
To buy the corps a trumpet there,
And laid it out in cakes.

Where are they now?-an open war
With open mouth declaring for?—
Or fall'n in bloody fray?
Compell'd to tell the truth I am,
Their fights all ended with the sham,-
Their soldiership in play.

Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks,
And Martin sells the cock he plucks,
And Jepp now deals in wine;
Harrington bears a lawyer's bag,
And warlike Lamb retains his flag,
But on a tavern sign.

They tell me Cocky Hawes's sword
Is seen upon a broker's board:
And as for "Fighting Jim,"
In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide,
His unresisting cheek I spied
Beneath a quaker brim!

Quarrelsome Scott is in the church,
For Ryder now your eye must search

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 say, "Nap for ever!"