A NEW WERSION OF AN OLD SONG.
(By a thorough Port-soakian.)
The Lord Mare leads an appy life,
He has no cares of party strife,
He drinks the best of hevry wine,
I wish the Lord Mare's lot was mine.
And, yet all appy's not his lot,
Although he has his title got;
He hardly once alone can dine—
would not that his lot was mine.
A Alderman more pleases me,
He leads a life of jollitee:
He nobly dines, has naught to pay,
And has his health drunk ev'ry day.
And though he has to sham delite
At weary speeches nite by nite,
And to administer the Law
Without no blunders or no flaw,
Still, though I but a Waiter be,
The Lord Mare's life would not suit me,
But, while I drains my flowing can,
I'll fancy I'm a Alderman!
Robert.
Poetry of Parliament.—A debate in the House of Commons corresponding to the verse named Alexandrine—"Which, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."
Seasonable Field-Sport.—Leather-hunting.
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*** Transcriber's Note: "I" inserted into the beginning of the last line of the sixth stanza of "Glass Falling", page 66.***