[FROM the French of Gilles Ménage, one of the most distinguished men of letters in France, who was born at Angers in 1613. Died, 1692. He is now best known as the Author of Ménagiana, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Goldsmith's Madame Blaize, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it.]

LA GALLISSE now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.

La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty
When he was born-but could not want,
As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,

He always was well bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels broil'd his blood,
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent,
The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell,
He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross;
And never any physic took,
But when be took a dose.

O happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train,
Whene'er he walk'd before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I can not rehearse,
But every one allows,

That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,

No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much-so it appears
Most plainly-who preferr'd him;
And those did never want their ears,
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue..
Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew,
But those that he knock'd down.

At last they smote him in the head-
What hero e'er fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that seal'd his death,
Deprived him of his life.

SCHNAPPS.

[THIS spirited translation from the German of Selber appeared anonymously in the Dublin University Magazine a few years ago.]

I'm rather slow at extravaganzas,

And what your poets call thunderclaps;

quid,

You've still to grin for your glass of
Schnapps.

You then wax funny, and show your slick wit, And smash to smithers with kicks and slaps

Whatever's next you in Latin quicquidFor I quote Horace when lauding Schnapps.

I've but one pocket for quids and coppers, Which last moreover are mostly raps, Yet 'midst my ha'pence and pipes and stoppers

I still find room for a flask of Schnapps. My daily quantum is twenty croppers, Or ten half-noggins; -but, when with chaps

Who, though good Schnappers, are no slip-
sloppers,
I help to empty a keg of Schnapps.

Being fifty, sixty, or therebetwixt, I
Guess many midnights cannot now elapse
Before the hour comes in which my fixt eye
Must look its last upon Earth and
Schnapps.

SELBER.

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

From the German of Schiller.

FOUR be the elements,

Here we assemble 'em,

Each of man's world

And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon

The slow-flowing juicesBitter is life

In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps-
Nature intended
Her sweet and severe

To be everywhere blended.

[THIS amiable man and agreeable writer was born in 1740, at Reinfeldt in Holstein, near Lübeck. He lived for some time in Wandsbeck. In 1776, he was appointed to a public office in Darmstadt, but returned to Wandsbeck the next year. He was a frequent con tributor to the "Wandsbeck Messenger." He died in 1818. A collection of his works, completed in 1812, was published under the title of "Asmus omnia sua secum portans, or the Collective Works of the Wands beck Messenger." A new edition in four volumes was published at Hamburg in 1838.

The most prominent characteristic of Claudius, as a writer, is a certain simplicity and hearty good-humor. He wrote excellent popular songs, simple ballads, fables, epigrams, tales, and dialogues.]

To rear a juice like wine;

But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring,

It breathes not of the vine.

And pond and lake are cracking,Then you may see his old sides shake, Such glee his frame is racking.

ing,

For wine are far too cold;

Though iron ores and cobalt there are

growing,

And chance some paltry gold.

He has an icy tower; Likewise in lovely Switzerland

He keeps a summer bower.

So up and down, -now here, now there,

His regiments manœuvre; When he goes by, we stand and stare,

And cannot choose but shiver.

THE HEN.

MATT. CLAUDIUS.

WAS once a hen of wit not small

(In fact, 't was not amazing),

And apt at laying eggs withal,

Who, when she'd done, would scream

and bawl,

As if the house were blazing.

A turkey-cock, of age mature,

Felt thereat indignation;

'T was quite improper, he was sure,

He would no more the thing endure;

So, after cogitation, He to the lady straight repaired, And thus his business he declared: "Madam, pray what 's the matter, That always, when you've laid an egg, You make so great a clatter? I wish you 'd do the thing in quiet; Do be advised by me, and try it!" "Advised by you?" the lady cried, And tossed her head with proper pride, "And what do you know, now I pray, Of the fashions of the present day, You creature ignorant and low? However, if you want to know This is the reason why I do it: I lay my egg, and then review it!"

MATT. CLAUDIUS.

MIGHT AND RIGHT.

From the German of Pfeffel.

A SPARROW caught a big blue bottle Fly, upon a weeping willow; It buzz'd-Phil held him by the throttle, 'Oh, let me go, there's a good fellow.' 'No,' says the murderer, 'not at all; For I am big, and you are small.'

21

A sparrow-hawk pounced on the sparrow Enjoying his repast; at once He plunged his talons in his marrow. 'Oh, let me go; what's the nonce?' 'Oh!' says the murderer, 'not at all; For I am big, and you are small.'

An eagle spied the sport; and, lo!
Popp'd down to have a bit of dinner.
'Oh, please your majesty, let me go;
Have mercy on a worthless sinner.'
'Pooh!' says the murderer, 'not at all;
For I am big, and you are small.'

While yet the king the bones was picking,
An archer served him out his gruel;
An arrow in his gizzard sticking,
Made him exclaim, 'O dear, how cruel!'
'Tut,' quoth the archer, 'not at all;
For I am big, and you are small.'

The moral is plain, ho! read it all :-
But ONE is big, all else is small.

A TRAGIC STORY.

From the German of Chamisso.

THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pig-tail wore,
But wonder'd much and sorrow'd more,

Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pig-tail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, 'The mystery I have found-
I'll turn me round!'-he turn'd him round,
And stamp'd with rage upon the ground,
But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day, the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain; it matter'd not a pin,

The pig-tail hung behind him.
And right and left and round about,
And up and down, and in and out
He turn'd, but still the pig-tail stout,
Hung steadily hehind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist and twirl and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pig-tail hangs behind him.

THE DRUNKARD'S CONCEIT.

[THE following translation, of the famous German song, by Herr v. Muhler, appeared in Notes and Queries a few years ago, under the signature of F. С. Н.

STRAIGHT from the tavern door

I am come here; Old road, how odd to me Thou dost appear! Right and left changing sides, Rising and sunk; Oh, I can plainly seeRoad! thou art drunk!

Oh, what a twisted face
Thou hast, O moon!
One eye shut, t'other eye
Wide as a spoon.

Who could have dreamt of this?
Shame on thee, shame!
Thou hast been fuddling,
Jolly old dame!

Look at the lamps again;
See how they reel!
Nodding and flickering
Round as they wheel.
Not one among them all
Steady can go;
Lool: at the drunken lamps,
All in a row.

All in an uproar seem

Great things and small; I am the only one Sober at all;

But there's no safety here

For sober men; So I'll turn back to

The tavern again.

IN PRAISE OF SLEEP.

From the Italian of Passeroni.

'Già molte cose, e molte sopra 'l Sonno.'

How many things have oft been sung or said Concerning Sleep, in poetry and prose!-There's scarce an author worthy to be read But something on the subject can disclose; While some declare it good, with nodding head,

Others its torpid influence oppose ;

And if in visions phantom shades arise, Invoking midnight terrors-what of them? How oft on soaring wings we range the skies

At banquets sit or find some costly gemDiscover where a hoarded treasure liesOr wear a monarch's jewell'd diadem? For such adventures we may meet, Raised by sleep's magic-wand, with kind deceit.

Moreover, I am wedded to no mate, Thinking my holy slumber she might break;

I am no doctor-thief- or advocate-
For they must ever keep both eyes awake.
Oh! when I take a hearty supper, late
How sweetly sleep creeps o'er me! I be-
take

My wearied limbs to bed; and, when once
there,
Why the dog barks, I neither know nor
care!

THE SCRIPTURAL PANORAMIST.

There was a fellow travelling around with a moral religious show a sort of a scriptural panorama - and he hired a wooden-headed old slab to play the piano for him. After the first night's performance, the showman says:

"My friend, you seem to know pretty much all the tunes there are, and you worry along first-rate. But then didn't you notice that sometimes last night the piece you happened to be playing was a little rough on the proprieties, so to speak - didn't seem to jibe with the general gait of the picture that was passing at the time, as it were was a little foreign to the subject, you know as if you didn't either trump or follow suit, you understand?"

"Well, no," the fellow said; "he hadn't noticed, but it might be; he had played along just as it came handy."

So they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on the panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled out, he was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help the audience to get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a camp-meeting revival. That sort of thing would corral their sympathies, the showman said.