Pass underneath the shining arch,
'Neath which the leafy elms are green;
Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!
And take your state.

Behold her in her Royal place;
A gentle lady; and the hand
That sways the sceptre of this land,
How frail and weak!
Soft is the voice, and fair the face:
She breathes amen to prayer and
hymn ;

No wonder that her eyes are dim,
And pale her cheek.

This moment round her empire's shores
The winds of Austral winter sweep,
And thousands lie in midnight sleep
At rest to-day.

Oh! awful is that crown of yours, Queen of innumerable realms Sitting beneath the budding elms Of English May!

Seine,

As rivers from their sources gush,
The swelling floods of nations rush,
And seaward pour:

From coast to coast in friendly chain, With countless ships we bridge the straits,

And angry ocean separates

Europe no more.

From Mississippi and from NileFrom Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorus, In England's ark assembled thus Are friend and guest.

281

The chanting organ echoes clear,
An awful chorus 'tis to hear,
A wondrous song!

1851.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

name is

The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,

But still in comfortable case; The whichr in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is

A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at TERRE'S tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,

Which served him upa Bouillabaisse.

Little we fear
Weather without,
Sheltered about
The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,
Perched round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit;
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree.

THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.

"A surgeon of the United States army says that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that nine-tenths of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty." Morning Paper.

YE Yankee Volunteers!
It makes my bosom bleed
When I your story read,

Though oft 'tis told one.
So- in both hemispheres
The women are untrue,
And cruel in the New,
As in the Old one!

What-in this company
Of sixty sons of Mars,

Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,
With fife and horn,
Nine-tenths of all we see
Along the warlike line
Had but one cause to join
This Hope Forlorn?

Deserters from the realm
Where tyrant Venus reigns,
You slipp'd her wicked chains,
Fled and out-ran her.

And now, with sword and helm,
Together banded are

Beneath the Stripe and Star-
Embroider'd banner!

And is it so with all

The warriors ranged in line,
With lace bedizen'd fine

And swords gold-hilted
Yon lusty corporal,

Yon color-man who gripes
The flag of Stars and Stripes ---
Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line,
The privates strong and tall,
"The pioneers and all,"
The fifer nimble.