There's the station; your tickets, step out, look alive! Here's a 'bus takes us all. Do you know where to drive?

Dr. Prossodie's, Winchester House!

(Copyright.-Contributed.)

SIR RUPERT THE RED.

EDMUND H. YATES.

[Edmund Hodgson Yates, born about the year 1828, is the son of the late Mr. Yates, the eminent actor, and some time partner with the late Charles Mathews in the lesseeship of the Adelphi Theatre. His mother was the gifted actress so well known to the last generation of play-goers.

Mr. Yates, who holds a situation in the General Post-office, is the present editor of the "Temple Bar Magazine," and one of the literary staff of the Star newspaper. After the decease of

Mr. Albert Smith, he occupied the Egyptian Hall, in which he gave an entertainment for a few months somewhat after the style of his predecessor; but "entertaining" was evidently not his forte. As a novelist he has succeeded better; but a propensity to indulge in personalities, interesting only to a literary clique, and which can be of no permanent value, detracts from the general interest of his writings.

His last two works, "Broken to Harness" and "Running the Gauntlet," have been read with avidity by the subscribers to circulating libraries, and hold their own among the novels of the day.]

SIR RUPERT THE RED was as gallant a knight
As ever did battle for wrong or for right,
As ever resented the slightest slight,

Or broke an antagonist's head.

Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame,
Full red was his hair, his beard was the same,
Mustachios and whiskers-whence his name,
His name of Sir Rupert the Red.

Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,
Residence meet for a baron bold:

Thick were its walls, and dark and cold

The swift Rhine ran below them.

Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine:
Rich travellers passing were asked to dine,
And when he'd sufficiently hocussed their wine,
Why-into its waters he'd throw them!

But stories will spread, howe'er you may try
To stifle Dame Rumour-and so, by-and-bye,
He found himself shunned by all far and nigh;
And when asked to dinner, each neighbour "fought
shy."

The bell ne'er was rung, and no stranger implored
The porter to run up, and question his lord

If he kindly would grant a night's shelter and board?
No priest on Sir Rupert's head called down a benison,
No acquaintance sent presents of black-cock and veni-

son.

While his former bad temper began to grow worse,
He would mutter and fidget-nay, stamp, foam, and

curse;

But his feelings I'll try to describe in the verse
Most used by our Alfred-not Bunn, though, but
Tennyson.

Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed,

Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled;

Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep

Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep

Saying "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no

more,

Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,

Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm—

Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its inodel farm?

Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my

beard,

And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;

Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews,

When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.

But, like mine, thy day is over-thou art blunt and I'm disgraced!

Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic

Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till nightNo person could please him, no conduct was rightTill his very retainers grew furious quite,

And determined to quit his service.

For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans;

While the groom from York told the cook from France "He warn't going to be led such a precious dance In a house turned topsy-turvies."

Oh, "the castled crag of Drachenfels,"
With its slippery sides and flowery dells,
Is a very romantic sight for "swells "

Who leave the squares of Belgravia,
And during the autumn visit the Rhine,
With courier hirsute and footman fine,
Who are both eternally drinking wine,

Though the last "don't like the flavour."

But Drachenfels was a different sight,
On a dark, tempestuous winter's night;
Then below it the river was foaming white,
And above it the storm-fiend strode :

On such a night, from his own red room,
Sir Rupert looked out athwart the gloom
To see what might "in the future loom,"
Or be coming up the road.

He strained his weary eyeballs, but well was he repaid
To see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade.
Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy
host they seemed,

And Sir Rupert's heart grew lighter, and his

brightly beamed;

eye more For many a day had passed away since he a prize had

won,

And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun.

"Now haste ye," he cried, "throw open the gate,
And let the drawbridge fall;

Then three little pages, with hair combed straight,
Who ever upon Sir Rupert wait,

Ran off to the warden tall.

The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,
In number, say fifty, i. e., man and horse.
First comes a gay herald, all silver and blue,
And then men in armour, who ride two and two;
Not such Guys as are seen on the ninth of November,
But your regular middle-age troopers, remember.
By the way, this last rhyme
Appertains to a time

Much thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called "prime,"

When young Hopeful's small pockets
Are emptied for rockets,

And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of soc

kets

When you're begged (and the tyrants take care you do

not)

Ne'er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.

The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow-
If you've seen Mr. Payne

At Old Drury Lane,

In the opening part of a grand Christmas Pantomime, Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o' rhyme

Please to fancy my herald does just the same now;
And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he

clears,

And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears,
Looks, as usual with speakers, in dreadful distress,
And thus to Sir Rupert begins his address.

"Sir Rupert the Red,

То I have sped
you

From a dame with whose brother you've conquered and

bled,

Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality,
Has ventured to ask for a night's hospitality.

No refusal I fear

When her name you once hear;

Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter 1

crave,

Is Margaret, the sister of Blutworst the Brave!"

Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,
"'Tis well known that my castle is never denied
To pilgrims of all countries, nations, and hues,
From swaggering English to gold-lending Jews;
How great, then, my joy 'neath my roof to receive
The sister of one

Whom I loved as a son,

For whose tragical end I have ne'er ceased to grieve."

Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said, "Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread; Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshau

sers,

Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,