The poet his fancied woes;
And the beauty her bloom returning
Like life to the fading rose.
IV.
All came to the rare old fellow,
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death’s black wine.
We should reluct at consorting with any citizen who could hear this song executed, in the manner of Brough, without feeling the electric fluid coursing up his vertebra, and passing off at the points of his hair, as the hollow tones waver down the chromatic, or wail in low and spondaic monotones. ‘F. B.’ was ‘rich’ in ‘Over There,’ a song which, like the numerous platitudes of the ‘Brigadier-General,’ is indebted to its music for its popularity. There ensues a verse that is very striking:
‘Oh! I wish I was a geese,