From their voices united such melody flow'd

As the Abbey ne'er witness'd, nor Tott'nham-court

road;

While St. Andrew's bells did so loud and so clear ring, You'd given ten pound to 've been out of their hearing.

For his fee, when the parson this couple had join'd,
As no cash was forthcoming, he took it in kind:
So the bridegroom dismantled his reverence's chin,
And the bride entertain'd him with pilchards and gin.

THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

HORACE SMITH.

ONE of the Kings of Scanderoon,

A Royal Jester

Had in his train, a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester

The Court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folks his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule

Occurr'd not to our jackanapes,

Who consequently found his freaks

Lead to innumerable scrapes,

And quite as many kicks and tweaks,

Which only seem'd to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurr'd the desperate displeasure

Of his serene and raging Highness:
Whether he twitch'd his most revered
And sacred beard,

Or had intruded on the shyness

Of the Seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows—his sin was an occult one;
But records tell us that the Sultan,
Meaning to terrify the knave,

Exclaim'd-"'Tis time to stop that breath;
Thy doom is seal'd :—presumptuous slave !
Thou stand'st condemn'd to certain death.
Silence, base rebel !—no replying !--
But such is my indulgence still,
That, of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying.'

'Thy royal will be done--'tis just,' Replied the wretch, and kiss'd the dust; Since, my last moments to assuage,

Your Majesty's humane decree

Has deign'd to leave the choice to me,

I'll die, so please you, of old age!'

CONCERNING SISTERS-IN-LAW.

THEY look'd so alike as they sat at their work, (What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk !)

The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts, The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the

same hearts.

The same irresistible cut in their jibs,

The same little jokes, and the same little fibs—
That I thought the best way to get out of my pain
Was by-heads for Maria, and woman for Jane ;
For hang me if it seem'd it could matter a straw,
Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.

But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined

To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind;
And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong

one,

That they're not quite alike, and I've taken the wrong

one.

Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool;

Never calls me a monster-not even a fool;

All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up,
And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup :—
Yes, I sometimes have wish'd-Heav'n forgive me the

flaw !

That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.

Oh, your sister-in-law is a dangerous thing!

The daily comparisons, too, she will bring!

Wife-curl-paper'd, slip-shod, unwash'd and undress'd;
She-ringleted, booted, and 'fix'd in her best ;'
Wife-sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating;
She merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting:
Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows
To the happy half-way between mother and spouse.
In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw,
He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.

That no good upon earth can be had undiluted
Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted;
And preachers and poets have proved it is so
With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos.
Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn,
The cup has its headache, its poppy the corn;
There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun--
In short, they've used all illustrations—but one;
And have left it to me the most striking to draw—
Viz.: that none, without wives, can have sisters-in-law.

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

From the German of Schiller.

PUNCH.

FOUR be the elements,

Here we assemble 'em,

Each of man's world

And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon

The slow-flowing juices

Bitter is life

In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps

Nature intended

Her sweet and severe

To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water

Unwarning by sound,
Eternity's ocean

Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit,

The life of the bowl

Man is an earth-clod

Unwarm'd by a soul!

Drink of the stream

Ere its potency goes!-

No bath is refreshing

Except while it glows!

NOBODY TO BLAME.

W. A. BUTLER.

CANTO I.

'PRAY whose is the fault,' inquired Doolittle Dolt, Of Ma'am Dorothy Ditto, as she pass'd him the salt, 'Pray whose is the fault,