As his hooded "Familiars" (their names, as some tell,

come

From their being so much more "familiar" than "welcome,")

Have, by this time, begun To be "poking their
fun,"

And their firebrands, as if they were so many posies
Of lilies and roses, Up to the noses

Of Lazarus Levi and Money Ben Moses ;
While similar treatment is forcing out hollow moans
From Aby Ben Lasco and Ikey Ben Solomons,
Whose beards this a black, that inclining to grizzle-
Are smoking, and curling, and all in a fizz'e ;
The King, at the same time, his Dons and his visitors,
Sit, sporting smiles, like the Holy Inquisitors, -

Enough!--no more!- Thank Heaven, 'tis o'er!

The tragedy's done! and we now draw a veil
O'er a scene which makes outraged humanity quail;
The last fire's exhausted, and spent like a rocket,
The last wretched Hebrew's burnt down in his socket!
The Barriers are open, and all, saints and sinners,
King, Court, Lords, and Commons, gone home to their

dinners,

With a pleasing emotion Produced by the notion Of having exhibited so much devotion, All chuckling to think how the Saints are delighted At having seen so many "Smouches" ignited :

All, save Privy-purse Humez, Who sconced in his
room is,

And, Cocker in hand, in his leather-backed chair,
Is puzzling to find out how much the "affair"

(By deep calculations, the which I can't follow,) cost, The tottle, in short, of the whole of the Holocaust.

Perhaps you may think it a rather odd thing,

That, while talking so much of the Court and the King,

In describing the scene Through which we've just
been

I've not said one syllable as to the Queen ;
Especially, too, as her Majesty's "Whereabouts,"

1

All things considered, might well be thought there

abouts;

The fact was, however, although little known,
Sa Magestad had hit on a plan of her own,
And suspecting, perhaps, that an Auto alone
Might fail in securing this "Heir to the throne,"

Had made up her mind, Although well inclined
Towards galas and shows of no matter what kind,
For once to retire, And bribe the Saints higher
Than merely by sitting and seeing a fire,-
A sight, after all, she did not much admire;

So she locked herself up, Without platter or cup, In her Oriel, resolved not to take bite or sup, Not so much as her matin-draught (our "early purl"), Nor put on her jewels, nor e'en let the girl,

Who helped her to dress, take her hair out of curl,
But to pass the whole morning in telling her beads,
And in reading the lives of the Saints, and their deeds,
And in vowing to visit, without shoes or sandals,
Their shrines, with unlimited orders for candles,
Holy water, and Masses of Mozart's and Handel's.*
And many a Pater, and Ave, and Credo

Did She, and her Father Confessor, Quevedo,
(The clever Archbishop, you know, of Toledo,)
Who came, as before, at a very short warning
Get through, without doubt, in the course of that morn-

ing;

Shut up, as they were, With nobody there To at all interfere with so pious a pair; And the Saints must have been stony-hearted indeed,. If they had not allow'd all these pains to succeed. Nay, it's not quite clear to me but their very ability

Might, Spain throughout, Have been brought into doubt,

Had the Royal bed still remain'd cursed with sterility; St. Jago, however, who always is jealous

In Spanish affairs, as their best authors tell us,

* "That is, She would have ordered them-but none are known, I fear, as his,

For Handel never wrote a Mass, and so She'd David Perez'sBow! wow! wow! Fol, lol, &c. &c." (Posthumous Note by the Ghost of James Smith, Esq.) And who, if he saw Anything like a flaw In Spain's welfare, would soon sing, "Old Rose, burn

the bellows!"

Set matters to rights like a King of good fellows:

By his interference,

hence,

Three-fourths of a year

There was nothing but capering, dancing, and singing, Cachucas, Boleros, and bells set a ringing,

In both the Castilles, Triple-bob-major peals, Rope-dancing, and tumbling, and somerset-flinging,

Seguidillas, Fandangos, While ev'ry gun bang

goes; And all the way through, from Gibraltar to Biscay, Figueras and Sherry make all the Dons frisky,

(Save Moore's "Blake's and O'Donnell's," who stick to

the whisky ;)

All the day long The dance and the song
Continue the general joy to prolong;
And even long after the close of the day

You can hear little else but "Hip! hip! hurray!"
The Escurial, however, is not quite so gay,
For, whether the Saint had not perfectly heard
The petition the Queen and Archbishop preferred, -
Or whether his head, from his not being used
To an Auto-da-fé, was a little confused, -
Or whether the King, in the smoke and the smother,
Got bother'd, and so made some blunder or other,

I am sure I can't say; All I know is, that day

There must have been some mistake! - that, I'm

afraid, is

Only too clear, Inasmuch as the dear

Royal Twins, though fine babies, -proved both little

LADIES!

MORAL,

Reader!-Not knowing what your "persuasion" may

be,

Mahometan, Jewish, or even Parsee,

Take a little advice which may serve for all three!

First-"When you're at Rome, do as Rome does!" and

note all her

Ways-drink what She drinks! and don't turn Teetotaller!

In Spain, raison de plus, You must do as they do, Inasmuch as they're all there "at sixes and sevens," Just as, you know, They were some years ago, In the days of Don Carlos and Brigadier Evans; Don't be nice, then-but take what they've got in their

shops,

Whether griskins or sausages, ham or pork-chops!

Next-Avoid Fancy-trousers!-their colours and shapes Sometimes, as you see, may lead folks into scrapes!

For myself, I confess I've but small taste for dress,

My opinion is, therefore, worth nothing-or less

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