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,
With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-
From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

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.
ONE night, the nymph call'd Country-Dance-
Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,

A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille—
Having been chased from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all
She used to grace-a country-town-
Went smiling to the new-year's ball.

« Here, here, at least,» she cried, « though driven
From London's gay and shining tracks-
Though, like a Peri cast from heaven,
I've lost, for ever lost Almack's-

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,
And-spite of some few dandy lancers,
Who vainly try to preach Quadrille-
See nought but true-blue country-dancers.

« 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?
Alas! in vain her ears would 'scape it—
It is « Di tanti palpiti,»

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
(The beau idéal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace,
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine-
From Hippolyte her rouge and hair—
Her poetry, from Lamartine-

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-
A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know
For English, at a single glance-

English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 't is fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing oft the devil with flounces.

<< How matrimony throve-ere stopp'd
By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-
How charmingly one's partner popp'd
The important question in poussette-ing!

« 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)
Declares not half so much is made
By licences and he must know well-
Since vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade.>>
She ceased-tears fell from every Miss-
She now had touch'd the true pathetic :-
One such authentic fact as this

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;
But now attend, and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite

Of those for whom-we care not.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,

If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown-
The People's Love-we care not.

For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, and dare not
Pronounce the will, whose very breath
Would rend its links-we care not.

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,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,

Redeem'd and pure-we care not.
For legal men who plead for wrong,
And, though to lies they swear not,
Are not more honest than the throng
Of those who do-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-
Away to his northern hills he flew,

And it was rare to see how the beldam smiled,
As she track'd his flight by the glare he threw ;

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,
Like bottled-up imps, is but brought out
To help in any unholy work

The wise state-conjurors are about ;-
Who, ready at hand for dingy deeds,

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 !»)
In a shape she loves the best of any,—
A Rat, who was n't« without a tale,»

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,
Of James the first, and James the latter,
And « bloody Queen Mary,» and lots of things
Which, he own'd, had nothing to do with the matter.
Thus, one by one, did the Witch call up
The legion of imps that fill'd that roll;
And to each she pledged her venemous cup,
While each one pledged to her his soul:
Till, hark! in the midst of all their rites,
While (counting two hundred and seventy-seven,
The hag included) this band of sprites
Were playing their tricks before high heaven,
There came a loud crash!

EXTEMPORE.

TO, TO WHOSE INTERFERENCE I CHIEFLY OWE THE
VERY LIBERAL PRICE GIVEN FOR LALLA ROOKH.

WHEN they shall tell, in future times,
Of thousands given for idle rhymes

Like these-the pastime of an hour,
They'll wonder at the lavish taste
That could, like tulip-fanciers, waste
A little fortune on a flower!

Yet wilt not thou, whose friendship set
Such value on the bard's renown-
Yet wilt not thou, my friend, regret

The golden shower thy spell brought down.
For thou dost love the free-born muse,
Whose flight no curbing chain pursues;
And thou dost think the song that shrines
That image, so adored by thee,
And spirits like thee,-Liberty,

Of price beyond all India's mines!

REFLECTION AT SEA.

SEE how beneath the moonbeam's smile
Yon little billow heaves its breast;
It foams and sparkles for a while,
And, murmuring, then subsides to rest.
So man, the sport of bliss and care,
Rises on Time's eventful sea,
And, having swell'd a moment there,
Thus melts into eternity.

FROM PLATO.

WHY dost thou gaze upon the sky?
Oh that I were that spangled sphere,
And every star should be an eye

To wonder on thy beauties here!

In life thou wert my morning star,
But now that death hath stolen thy light,
Alas! thou shinest dim and far,

Like the pale beam that weeps at night.

GOVERNMENT.