ON GOOD TERMS.

Termagants.

Gather, sweet Lawyers, in Westminster-hall;

There's more game in your bag, than a sportsman e'er shoots:

You feed, and you're fed, let whatever befal;

And your flowing gowns cover your sins and your suits,

Who says that yours isn't a right royal sport,

When it's known that you all make your fortunes at Court?

5. France in a state of spontaneous combustion.

Through air as
dark as
dirty muslin,

Duke of Guys.
The city people
go
a-guzzlin.

France is a powder magazine,

A sort of foreign infernal machine—

A barrel of brimstone, of odour ambrosian,

Apparently brewed for a "triple X"-plosion!

She's been fermenting her beer for years!

She laughs in her frenzy, or revels in Thiers—

For war she'll riot, at peace she'll scoff,

And she wont go on till she does go off!

She's quite in a "fifth of November" state,

To blow up some one at any rate;

If Guy Fawkes were over there—my eyes!

She'd make him a Peer—as the Duke of Guys!

She'd have her Monarch in air be blown;

Not one of the throne, but the overthrown!

And when he was shivered to atoms, she'd wait

To pick up his bits to bury in state!

She'd shoot at him till he was quite unnerved,

And then address him on being preserved.

But a King—to say it I do not stickle—

In such a preserve must be always in pickle!

I wouldn't be Louis-Philippe, I say,

If I had a thousand Louis a-day.

To be King in a land of such whimsical slaugh

'S like being a Monarch inside of a mortar!

21. Princess Royal born, 1840.