But "Shiver my topsail lee-scuppers, what cheer?
Look lively, my hearties!" cried Jack;
"Please your Majesty, don't get piping your eye,"
And he lent him a slap on the back!

Thereat the Prime-Minister gravely arose,
Looking fierce and forbidding as Phocion,
Then sadly and solemnly blew he his nose,
With a view to conceal his emotion.
Said he, "If you'd know the cause of our woe,
I'll endeavour to give you a notion.

"And first, let me state, for your full information,

When our great-great-great grandsires were brats, That from sunrise to sundown the whole of the nation Was sorely infested with rats.

But at last of mus rattus a riddance we gat us-
And then our affliction was cats!

"One Whittington, he was the man who brought To our rat-eaten country a kitten.

When it cleared off our pest, how little we thought
With a new kind of plague we were smitten;
For about his good hap this imprudent young chap
To his friends and relations had written:

"And lo! thenceforth every merchantman here
Brought a shipload of cats for a cargo;
Till, our cat-ridden nation beginning to fear
Such importing would rather too far go,
On ships that would deal-in commodities feline
His Majesty laid an embargo.

"But alas! the precaution was only a mockery!
For the cats now o'er all hold the sway-

They shatter our windows and throw down the crockery,

And carry our victuals away,

They kill our canaries, and clear out our dairiesThey keep us awake with their nightly vagaries

And the cold loins of lamb they purloin from our

'aireys'

In fact there's the devil to pay !"

Jack winked his eye with a cheery smile,

And "Old fellow," he chuckled, “if that's
The only cause of your sadness, I'll
Effect a clean sweep of the cats!

This bandy-legged terrier will soon make you merrier,
If he doesn't-I'll eat up your hats!"

So his bandy-legged, stumpy-tailed terrier-cur,
Those cats he incited to worry.

There was spitting and scratching and flying of fur,
With a great caterwauling and scurry-

But the end of the fray was-the dog had the day,
For the cats had decamped in a hurry!

Then Jack he was loaded with silver and gold,
Pearls, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies-
Of the sum of his millions of millions, I'm told,
Twenty-seven exactly the cube is,

But he breathed in no ear how he'd won them for fear
Of the weak imitation of boobies.

MORAL.

He returned, it is said, to the City and there
Took a house, but, afraid of disgraces,
When he learnt 'twas intended to make him Lord May'r,
Disappeared from it, leaving no traces;

But, by latest advices, retails penny ices,
And was seen t'other day at the Races.

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN.

JAMES SMITH.

For many a winter in Billiter-lane,

My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain :
At Christmas the family met there to dine

On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel,
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window'd box,
That beckons upstairs every Zeyphr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,-
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme,
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen,

We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew King and Queen.

These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel:

'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.
At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon:
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, "Oh, Billiter-lane!"
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.

little Flanigan, with a wife and four children: a guinea or two would be more to him than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me.

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most powerful recommendation.

[Giving money to the Follower. Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your money. But to business: we are to be here as your friends, I suppose. But set in case company comes.. Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face; a very good face: but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes.

Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied without delay.

Enter Servant.

Detain her a moment.

Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. Honeywood. How unlucky! We must improve my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes-quick-the brown and silver. Do you hear?

Servant. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new.

Honeywood. The white and gold then.

Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for nothing.

Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand, then: the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan.

Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock than he. Scents like a hound; sticks like a

weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me.

[Re-enter Flanigan.] Heh, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a suit from the same place for myself.

Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed.

Bailiff. Never you fear me; I'll show the lady that I have something to say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and another man has another; that's all the difference between them.

Enter Miss Richland and her Maid.

Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library.

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be? fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. [Aside. Bailiff [after a pause]. Pretty weather, very pretty weather, for the time of year, madam.

I

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. Honeywood. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave.

Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir?

Honeywood. Why, madam, they do occasionally serve in the Fleet, madam: a dangerous service.

Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me that, while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it.

Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not