Thus ended this wonderful case: and now
You may judge, my readers, of 'Good Gammon Row:'
—Oh hark to gay Rowdy's jeer and scoff,
At poor Green, as from Court he sadly moves off,
Moves off through an oily and turban'd crowd,
Of Brahmins that laugh in their triumph aloud.
—They shout "We may thrash these white men, for we
Shall be fined but lightly for such a grand spree."
It is good to laugh! Say, is it not sport
To see such a glorious scene in a Court!—
Fair JUSTICE perverted, PUBLIC RIGHT
Shamed and insulted in all men's sight.
Ha, Ha! Let us laugh! To respect what claim
Has an Englishman's honour, an Englishman's name?
A MORAL let us, like a foolscap, draw
O'er the bald grand head of ancient Law:
It is this:—All truth, all justice is fudge
When a Brahmin is judged by a Brahmin Judge!

Miss Mantrap.

Anna Maria Mantrap
Don't set your cap at me,
For do I not know your age is
Precisely forty-three?
For when I was twenty, Anna,
Then you were twenty, too.
Do you think I didn't find that out
Before I proposed to you?
Go to your mirror, Anna,
Shake those false curls, and say—
'The beauty which once lured Chutney
Is faded indeed away!'

Three and twenty Aprils
Have fled since that April night,
When you and I were together
All under the sweet star-light.
The fireflies flitted round us,
The air was cool and calm;
We could see the broad moon rising,
Through the stems of a grove of palm.
The garden trees around us
Sigh'd, as the wind swept by;
And the road-side casuarinas
Sent back a softer sigh.
You stoop'd, and pick'd me a posy,—
Ah me, I have it yet!
'Twas a little rose-bud, circled
By sprigs of mignonette.
The dewy myrtles glistened,
As my eyes—with other dew;
The trelliced jasmine trembled,
As my heart in its love for you!
'Twas then, as the rising moonlight.
On your sweet face softly glow'd,—
'Twas then that the words of my passion,
And tears of my yearning flowed.
I think you liked me, Anna?
But my pay was a little too low,
So "ask Papa," was your answer,
—Which led to a final NO.

Anna, I know I've altered.
But do not you forget
That when I sought your favours
You were a young brunette:
Your form, through the ball-room flitting,
Had an exquisite, infinite grace;
And your splendid tresses o'ershadow'd
A tender and eloquent face.
But now? Ah Anna Maria,
Is it nothing for ladies to see
The dawn of an April morning
Which welcomes them forty-three?

I've grown much stouter—I know it,
But I can't have fall'n off like you:—
Anna, do you know your complexion
Has taken a muddy hue?
I see that you paint and powder:
I think padded dresses you wear?
And I know those luxurious ringlets,
And plaits, are simply false hair!
That your hands are skinny, I notice;—
They are shrivell'd under the rings.
Yes, and lately you told me, "low dresses
Are very indecent things!"
I quite understand you, Anna:
I trust you understand me?
Mayhap, love's blind at twenty,—
He isn't at forty-three!

So it's no use now, I assure you,
To sigh whenever we meet;
To beckon to me at the Bandstand,
To ogle at me in the street;—
To seat you in Church close by me,
And by many a look and sign
To hint you've forgotten your prayer-book,
So would like to look over mine;—
To press my hand when you shake it,
To quote my own verses to me;—
Heavens! Anna, my dear, do remember
We are both of us forty-three!

I know you've had your offers
In the days that are no more;
There was SWELLINGTON at Trichy,
There was CRABBE at Bangalore:
But CRABBE was old and crusty,
And SWELLINGTON, you knew,
Was deep in debt, and wanted
Your money, and not you.
Next D. P. W. HARDUP,
Next SWIG, with the D. T.
Next wild JACK HARE, the Planter,
Then miserable ME.
And then your love's soft witchery
Old COLONEL LIVER caged,—
But when engaged to marry
Stern death his thoughts engaged!
The next and last proposal
Came from a reverend gent,
When grave ARCHDEACON TRIPLET
Before your beauty bent.
'Take me,' he sigh'd, 'ten cherubs
My former help-meet bore,—
And three times running, lately
I dreamt I had a score!'
But him, too, you rejected
And scorn'd his pious flame,
And sent the startled suitor
Back, quicker than he came.
And now—Ah Anna, Anna,—
You strive again to hook
This little worthless minnow
You flung back into the brook!

I walk in my garden, Anna;
The lilies glisten with dew:
My heart grows softer towards you;
There's a tear in my eye for you.
I am thinking, sadly thinking,
Of that night, so long ago;
Of the living hopes that were mine, dear,
Ere slain by that felon NO.
I am dreaming, sadly dreaming,
Had we been married, Ann,
Would not you've been a better woman,
And I a better man?
God knows, but that something to pray for—
The children about the knees—
Might have made you think less of dresses,
And made me think less of rupees;
That something to work for, to hope for,
Ay, and to weep for, too,
Might have made me of self less careless,
And have raised and strengthen'd you.

Enough! These are moonlight fancies:
The reality—look at that!
You are old and thin, dear Anna,
And I am old and fat.
Can birds build nests in winter?
Or make honey, in winter, the bee?
Come then—don't ogle. Remember
We are both of us forty-three!