If France was beat at Waterloo, As all, but Frenchmen, think she was— To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news-no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. Such tales he had of foreign plots, From Poland owskis by the dozen. When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clencli'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts, The drama, books, MS. and printed— Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scout's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't. 'T was thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In that Ned-trust him-had his finger. COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE. A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille— « Here, here, at least,» she cried, « though driven Though not a London Miss alive Would now for her acquaintance own me; And spinsters, even of forty-five, Upon their honours ne'er have known me: « Here, here, at least, I triumph still, « Here still I reign, and fresh in charms, My throne, like Magna Charta, raise, 'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, That scorn the threaten'd chaîne anglaise.» 'T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She 'lighted at the King's-Head Inn, And up the stairs triumphant ran. The squires and their squiresses all, With young squirinas, just come out, And my lord's daughters from the Hall (Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt), Already, as she tripp'd up stairs, She in the cloak-room saw assemblingWhen, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the first fiddle, set her trembling. She stops-she listens-can it be? As plain as English bow can scrape it. «Courage!» however, in she gocs With her best sweeping country grace; When, ah! too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face. Oh for the lyre, or violin, Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery! There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face Her flounces, fresh from Victorine- Her morals from-the Lord knows where. And, when she danced-so slidingly, So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part. Her face the while, demure, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing, Like a bright pendule's dial-plate So still, you'd hardly think 't was going. Full fronting her stood Country-Dance- English all o'er, from top to toe. A little gauche, 't is fair to own, And playing oft the devil with flounces. << How matrimony throve-ere stopp'd « While now, alas! no sly advances No marriage hints-all goes on badly: "Twixt Parson Malthus and French dances, We girls are at a discount sadly. « Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) Is worth whole volumes theoretic. Instant the cry was « COUNTRY-DANCE!» And the maid saw, with brightening face, The steward of the night advance, And lead her to her birthright-place. The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet, And, for one happy night, at least, Old England's triumph was complete. SONG. FOR THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY. To those we love we 've drank to-night; Of those for whom-we care not. For royal men, howe'er they frown, If on their fronts they bear not For slavish men who bend beneath For priestly men who covet sway And wealth, though they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go-we care not. For martial men who on their sword, Redeem'd and pure-we care not. And never, oh! never-not even then In her youthful days of murderous tricksWas Bigotry half so pleased as when She counted Two Hundred and Seventy-six ! With joy, I wist, each name she kiss'd, Though even in joy a sigh heaved she, When out of that list one name she miss'd, Her own dear Wilks, of Sudbury. «<'T is well, 't is well-so far our spell Is a match for even my darkest days;Now, draw me a circle round, and tell What Sprite of them all I first shall raise.»> The circle is drawn.-She squats within, And « Arise,» she cries, some « imp of flame, Who will do my bidding, through thick and thin!»— She spoke but the word, and Duigenan came! His torch was ready-his eyes were wild- And it was rare to see how the beldam smiled, As she saw, by her gift of second sight, The mingling flash of the pike and sword, And the burning cottage's crimson light On the baleful Orange banner pour'd! But, see what spell doth she now prepare? What strange zigzaggeries round her draw, As she mutters, backward, many a prayer?— 'T is to call to her aid some imp of law; Some dusky Gnome, who shivers at light; Who, bred in the dark, his life hath pass'd, In playing, for hire, with Wrong and Right, Till he knows not one from t'other, at last; Who kept by his masters under cork, The wise state-conjurors are about ;- Not only is bottled, convenient sprite! But labell'd and priced, and only needs A seal on his cork to fix him quite. « Up!» said the hag, with visage stern, « My master imp, who art learn'd in all The wise and good would most unlearn:>> She said-and Copley came, at her call; Came (while the beldam cried « All hail !») As he told of a cock and a « bull »2 full many. And like a rat without a tail.-Macbeth. The Bull part of the story belongs more properly to Mr PIL. And much he squeak'd of queens and kings, EXTEMPORE. TO, TO WHOSE INTERFERENCE I CHIEFLY OWE THE WHEN they shall tell, in future times, Like these-the pastime of an hour, Yet wilt not thou, whose friendship set The golden shower thy spell brought down. Of price beyond all India's mines! REFLECTION AT SEA. SEE how beneath the moonbeam's smile FROM PLATO. WHY dost thou gaze upon the sky? To wonder on thy beauties here! In life thou wert my morning star, Like the pale beam that weeps at night. |