PADDY DUNBAR.

Ar the request of numerous subscribers the following very humorous parody of Sir Walter Scott's 66 Young Lochinvar" is here given, although somewhat out of its proper order. The parody, which is a favourite piece. with reciters, has been kindly sent by Mr. C. H. Stephenson, of Southport.

PADDY DUNBAR.

ОCH, Paddy Dunbar is come out of the West,
In all broad St. Giles his brogue was the best,
And, save his shillelah, he weapon had none,
He walked by himself, when he walked all alone;
So daring in love, and so plucky in war,
Och, a broth of a boy now, was Paddy Dunbar.

He carried up bricks, and he carried up stone,

And he carried up mortar, when bricks there was none; But ere he had rattled at Mulrooney's gate,

The bride had consinted, poor Paddy came late,

And a fresh-water sailor, as niver smelt tar,

Was to wed the swate Norah of Paddy Dunbar.

So bowldly he marched into Mulrooney's stall,
'Mongst mothers, and brothers, and cousins, and all;
Then spake ould Mulrooney, his fist in his hand

While the spalpeen of a bridegroom quite spacheless did stand,

"Och, come ye in pace here; or come ye in war,
Or to jig at our wedding, ye blaygard Dunbar ?”

"When I first coorted Norah, ye thought me too bould,
Love warms us like toddy, but sooner grows cold;
And now I am come, without malice or spleen,
To jig at your wedding, and smoke my dhudeen;
There are girls in St. Giles more pretty by far,
Would gladly be married to Paddy Dunbar."

The bride filled a noggin, young Pat took it up,
He tipped off the whisky, then threw down the cup;
She looked down to sneeze, then looked up so sly,
Wid a pipe in her mouth, and a patch on her eye;
He took her red hand, ere her mother could bar,
'Here goes for a jig now," says Paddy Dunbar.

So big was his form, and so red was her face,
That nivir a stall such a couple did grace;
While the mother did fret, and the father did fume,
And the bridegroom lay drunk at the end of the room:
And the bride-gossips whispered, "'twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with Paddy Dunbar."

One wink o' the eye, and one word in the ear,

When they reached the street door, and found the coast clear;

So light to his shoulder swate Norah he fiung,
So swift o'er the gutter before him he sprung,
"We are gone, she is mine, over post, rail, and bar,
They'll have long legs that catch us," said Paddy
Dunbar.

There was rousing and growling in Mulrooney's clan,
The Murphys and Donovans up and they ran;
There was racing and chasing, a deuce of a spree,

But the illigant Norah no more did they see:

So daring in love, and so plucky in war,
Och, a broth of a boy now was Paddy Dunbar.

THE STAR.

TWINKLE, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing Sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark:
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the Sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Ascribed to Miss Taylor.

TO A LONDON CHURCH BELL.
TINKLE, tinkle, horrid bell!
How I hate your dismal knell !
From your church's tower so high
Plaguing all the dwellers nigh.

Ere the shades of night are gone,
Ere the sun earth shines upon,
You begin with morning light
Tinkle, tinkle, till the night.

And the toiling City clerk
Hears you in his office dark;
Less of headache he might know
If you did not tinkle so.

With your ceaseless clang you keep
Many a sufferer from sleep,
For you never silent lie

While the sun is in the sky.

TO THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL.

MONUMENT to Temple Bar,
How I wonder why you are
Stuck in Fleet by magnates high,
Like a huge November guy!

Though the ugly Bar is gone,
You the site must rest upon,
Just to show how little light
Flickers in this Council bright. (?)
Then the travellers in the dark,
Curse you as their shins you bark,
For they could tell which way to go
If you did not hinder so.

In the narrow street you keep,
At solemn pace my cab doth creep
'Neath thy" all-fired" griffin's eye,
Leering there 'twixt earth and sky.

As of light no tiny spark,
Brightens all thy hist'ry dark,
Oh! I know not why you are,
Monument to Temple Bar.

One and All. November 6, 1880.

There are five other parodies of the same original in the competition, but the two above are the most interesting.

SCINTILLATE, scintillate, globule vivific,
Fain would I fathom thy nature specific.
Loftily poised in æther capacious,
Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.
When Torrid Phoebus refuses his presence,
And ceases to lamp us with fierce incandescence,
Then you illumine the regions supernal
Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.

Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination
Gratefully hails your minute coruscation;
He could not determine his journey's direction
But for your bright scintillating protection.

THE SPRINKLER.

SPRINKLE, sprinkle, water cart,
How I wonder what thou art;
Never can I find you nigh
When the dust is deep and dry.

When the clouded sun is set,
And the streets with rain are wet,
Then you wing your little flight,
Sprinkle, sprinkle, left and right.

When the crossings, Sunday clean,
Full of well-dressed folks are seen,
Men, amid their shrieks and oaths
How you sprinkle all their clothes.

And when bright my boots are "shined,"
And my hands in kids confined,
Rattling down the thirsty street
How you soak my hands and feet.

Some day, when this deed is done,
I will draw my trusty gun,
Then we'll wonder where thou art
Buckshot sprinkled water-cart.

To A FALLEN "STAR."

TWINKLE! twinkle! Morning Star!*
How I wonder where you are!
Not that you were ever high
In the journalistic sky.

But I wonder has John Bright
Ceased to feed you with his light?
Have you had your little day?
Have you shone your last weak ray?

If you have-why then I'm glad,
For the light you gave was bad!
If you're snuffed out, Morning Star,
Why I'm very pleased you are!

Punch and Judy (London.) October 23, 1869.

TO THE NEW STAR IN ANDREW MEDIA.
TWINKLE, twinkle, little star,
Up among the nebular;

How I wonder all the same,

Where you were before you came?

* The Morning Star, a London Liberal newspaper, founded in 1856.

"I AM willing to throw in my lot with that of my friend Huxley, and to fight to the death' against this wicked and cowardly surrender. A desperate gamester, miscalled a Statesman, has chosen to invoke ignorant foreign opinion against the instructed opinion of his own countrymen."Professor Tyndall's last Letter to the Times.

TYNDALL, Tyndall, learned star,
How we wonder where you are!

Fizzing up like penny pop,

Coming down on Gladstone flop!

"Desperate gamester!" Tyndall mine,

Such invective is not fine.

Have you not a card to trump,

Rattling Randolph on the stump?

Difference exists no doubt;
Let us calmly fight it out;
But to call each other names
Is the vulgarest of games.

Honestly one view you hold;
If to differ one makes bold,
Is it fair, Sir, to infer,
That he's rascal, traitor, cur?

Pooh! That's Party's puerile plan,
Wisdom, Sir, should play the man.
Drop these tart polemic pennings,
Leave that sort of stuff to Jennings.

Punch. July 23, 1887.

LINES TO THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN THE READING
ROOM OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
TWINKLE, twinkle, little arc,
Sickly, green, uncertain spark!
Up above my head you swing,
Ugly, strange, expensive thing.

Bless your radiance, little arc ?

When you fade with modest blush,

Scarce more bright than farthing rush,
Would he see which way to go,

If you always twinkled so ?

Cold, unlovely, shivering star,
I've no notion what you are-

How your wondrous "system" works,
Who controls your jumps and jerks.

Yours a splendour like the day—
Bilious green and purple ray!
No where'er they worship you
All the world is black or blue.

Though your light at times surpass
Homely oil or vulgar gas,

Still I close with this remark-
I detest you, little are!

Slightly altered from Judy. June 6, 1888.

BOULANGER.

TWINKLE, twinkle, little Star,
How I wonder what you are!
Still more what you mean to be,
When you get back to Paree!

Are you a Republican,
Wedded to the Rights of man?
Or an embryotic King?

Emperor? Despot? Anything?

When you're President-elect,
What new move may we expect?
Will you show us what you are
By a bloody Coup d'Etat?

Here meanwhile in London town
You will certainly go down;
Social crowds will stare and cheer;
Of expulsion there's no fear!

Twinkle, twinkle, Gallic Star!
We've no notion what you are;
Living low and flying high,
Like a comet in the sky.

Puck. May 1, 1889.

The political adventurer Boulanger, having done all he could to embarrass the French Government, and to create disturbances on the eve of the opening of the great Paris Exhibition, ignominiously fled to Belgium, when he found that his selfish and unpatriotic conduct was likely to bring upon him the punishment he deserved. Whilst in Brussels he issued a ridiculously theatrical manifesto, whereupon the Belgian Government hinted that his presence was undesirable in that country, and in April last he sought refuge in London. His reception was cool, and in a few days he was completely forgotten. Boulanger, who is fifty-two years of age, has none of the qualities necessary in a man who aspires to be a great political leader, and had he not been supported by the wealth and influence of the re-actionary parties in France, he would long since have sunk back into his native obscurity.

The Colonists are waiting still, they prowl about their beach,

For well they guess some English dupes will come within their reach;

So they conjure up some Siren song, and have it put in print,

And rub their hands, and slap their thighs, at folks believing in't:

They fabricate long letters home--from settlers well-to-do, All season'd high with luring lies, so couched to seem quite true;

"Here capital must multiply, wealth waits each working clan,

Here is-Eutopia itself, aye,-Paradise for man."

VI.

Alas! alas! how very soon some too-confiding men, Hearken to the seductive words said o'er and o'er again: With home-they discontented grow, fancy—a fairer land, Air-castles build in promis'd scenes, with wealth that courts the hand;

Seas cross'd-the colony must now for ever hold them fast. Fresh Colonists are old one's game, who pluck them great and small,

Gloat o'er their brethren-victimized, sore struggling, one and all.

VIII.

And now, ye English, old and young, who may this story read,

To tales from coves-of distant shores, I pray you ne'er give heed;

Unto the crafty Colonist, close heart, and ear, and eye, And heed this version of the tale of "The Spider and the Fly."

From Emigration Realised, a poem, &c., by S. C. C. (i.e. Chase), London. Saunders & Otley, 1855.

THE SONG OF THE BANK DIRECTOR.

"WILL you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly!

"Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy. "You've only got to pop your head just inside of the door, "You'll see so many curious things you never saw before "

"Will you let me see your pocket?" said the spider to the fly!

"To handle your bright gold I've a great curiosity."

Said the fly, "If once you'd hold of it, a wager I would lay

"Of ten to one you very soon would take it all away." "What handsome purse, what lots of cash!" quoth spider to the fly.

"If I had so much money, some nice Bank shares I would buy.

"Look here!" And here he ope'd a safe, and said, “Dear