The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man In the middle of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.

Two gents of dismal mien, And dank and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin, Swaggering over the flags :

Swaggering over the stones, These shabby bucks did walk; And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake? Could I believe my ears? Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more: Says one-“ Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for, In the Diddlesex Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they wouldn't give me one; His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done :

Of the ways of this bad town;

"O Jim, you are unawares always write for five hundred shares, And then they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, "for all your boast; "I would have wrote," says Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up; But here's 'taters smoking hot--I say, Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail.

Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and tost, And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere," I said, "and the world's advance; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France; For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance."

A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD.

OF THE

PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE.

(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.)

COME all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear,
'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear;

'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow, When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know.

The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt,

I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent :

It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow,
And our Holy Father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No no.

And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is Puseyites no longer,

Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger. And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss'd the Pope his

toe,

And hung his neck with chains at Saint Peter's Vinculo.

And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing grand,

And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican; And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys blow.

And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio.

And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and glory,
Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory;
And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go
Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo.

Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard,
There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard.

And ever since the world began it was ordained so,

That there should always barbers be wheresumever beards do grow,

And as it always has been so since the world it did begin,
Ahe Pope, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin;
And every morning regular when cocks begin to crow,
There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO.

There comes a certing gintleman with razier, soap and lather,
A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father.
And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show,
Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NoNo.

Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and hate,
Assembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian gate;
And they took counsel with their selves to deal a deadly blow
Against our gentle Father, the Holy POPE PIO.

Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heerd or read of;

What do you think them Prodestants wished? to cut the good Pope's head off!

And to the kind POPE'S Air-dresser the Prodestant Clark did go, And proposed him to decapitate the innocent PIO.

"What hever can be easier," said this Clerk-this Man of Sin, "When you are called to hoperate on His Holiness's chin, Than just to give the razier a little slip-just so ?— And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent PIO!"

This wicked conversation it chanced was overerd

By an Italian lady; she heard it every word:

Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service forced to go With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate of Popolo.

When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege,
As fast as her legs could carry her she ran to the Poleege.
"O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so),
"They're going for to massyker our Holy POPE PIO.

"The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and his Clark,
His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark!
And I would recommend you in prison for to throw
These villians would esassinate the Holy Pope Pio!

"And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble crownd I humbly hope your Worships will give me a few pound;

Because I was a Marchioness many years ago,
Before I came to service at the gate of Popolo."

That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and his man,
Wouldn't, though ask'd continyally, own their wicked plan-
And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go
That was plotting of the murder of the good PIO NONO,

Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at home,

How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good our Pope at Rome;
So let us drink confusion to LORD JOHN and LORD MINTO
And a health unto His Eminence and good Pro NONO.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.

COME all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail,

It was all about a doctor was travelling by the rail,

By the Heastern Counties' Railway (vich the shares I don't desire), From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.

A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed

With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd, And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester, a lady entered in to them most elegantly dressed.

She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering step,

And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep;

The gentleman received her with kindness and siwillaty,
Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said,

Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead.
Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in the fust,
And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.

A scein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail,
To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail;