May be, to his latest hour,
Flourish in his bridal bower—
Find wedded love no Poet's fiction,

And Punch the only contradiction.

THE DRUNKARD'S CONCEIT.

The following translation, or rather imitation, of the famous German song, by Herr v. Muhler, appeared in Notes and Queries a few years ago, under the signature of F. C. H.

Look at the lamps again;

See how they reel !
Nodding and flickering

Round as they wheel.

Not one among them all

Steady can go;

Look 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.

THE HONEST MAN'S LITANY.

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

FROM a wife of small fortune, but yet very proud,
Who values herself on her family's blood:
Who seldom talks sense, but for ever is loud,

Libera me!

From living i' th' parish that has an old kirk, Where the parson would rule like a Jew or a Turk, And keep a poor curate to do all his work,

D

Libera me!

From a justice of peace who forgives no offence,
But construes the law in its most rigid sense,
And still to bind over will find some pretence,
Libera me!

From bailiffs, attorneys, and all common rogues, From Irish nonsense, their bogs and their brogues, From Scots' bonny clabber, their clawing and shrugs, Libera me!

From spiritual courts, citations and libels,
From proctors, apparitors, and all the tribe else,
Which never were read of yet, in any Bibles,

Libera me!

From dealing with great men and taking their word, From waiting whole mornings to speak with my lord, Who puts off his payments, and puts on his sword, Libera me!

From trusting to hypocrites: wretches who trifle
With heaven, that on earth more secure they may rifle ;
Who conscience and honour and honesty stifle,

Libera me!

From Black-coats, who never the gospel yet taught,
From Red-coats, who never a battle yet fought,
From Turn-coats, whose inside and outside are naught,

Libera me!

FOOTMAN JOE.

G. HEBERT.

WOULD you see a man that's slow?
Come and see our footman, Joe:
Most unlike the bounding roe,
Or an arrow from a bow,
Or the flight direct of crow,
Is the pace of footman Joe;
Crabs that hobble to and fro,
In their motions copy Joe.
Snails, contemptuous as they go,
Look behind and laugh at Joe.
An acre any man may mow,
Ere across it crawleth Joe.
Trip on light fantastic toe
Ye that tripping like, for Joe;
Measured steps of solemn woe
Better suit with steady Joe.
Danube, Severn, Trent, and Po,
Backward to the source shall flow,

Ere despatch be made by Joe.
Letters to a Plenipo

Send not by our footman Joe.
Would you Job's full merit know,

Ring the bell, and wait for Joe;
Whether it be king or no,
'Tis just alike to lazy Joe.
Legal process none can show,
If your lawyer move like Joe.

Death, at last, our common foe,
Must trip up the heels of Joe;
And a stone shall tell- Below,
Hardly changed, still sleepeth Joe.
Loud shall the final trumpet blow,
But the last comer will be Joe.'

THE THEATRE.

JAMES SMITH.

Rejected Addresses; or, the New Theatrum Poetarum, by James and Horace Smith, appeared in October 1812. The occasion which suggested the volume was the re-opening of Drury Lane Theatre. The managers issued an advertisement requesting that addresses, one of which should be spoken on the opening night, might be sent in for competition. Mr. Ward, secretary of the Theatre, casually started the idea of publishing a series of supposed 'Rejected Addresses.' The brothers eagerly adopted the sug gestion, and in six weeks the volume was published, and received by the public with enthusiastic delight. The Rejected Addresses are principally humorous imitations of eminent authors. Lord Byron and Lord Jeffrey frequently spoke highly in favour of them as 'the very best that ever were made.'

'The Theatre,' given here, is in imitation of Crabbe, and was written by James Smith. In the Edinburgh Review, Jeffrey wrote of it : "The Theatre," by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think, is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste, temper, and manner of description of that most original author.' James Smith died at Craven Street, Strand, on the 24th December 1839, aged 65; and Horace died at Tunbridge Wells, July 12, 1849, in the 70th year of his age.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,

Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,