The Courtiers were all much addicted to Play,
To Bourdeaux, Chambertin, Frontignac, St. Peray,

Lafitte, Chateau Margaux, And Sillery (a cargo On which John Bull sensibly (?) lays an embargo),

While Louis Quatorze Kept about him, in scores, What the Noblesse, in courtesy, term'd his "Jane

Shores,"

-They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doors.

This, we all must admit, in A King's not befitting! For such courses, when followed by persons of quality, Are apt to detract on the score of morality.

François Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of them,

Dress'd, drank, and fought, and chassée'd with the best of them;

Took his œil de perdrix Till he scarcely could see, He would then sally out in the streets for a "spree;" His rapier he'd draw, Pink a Bourgeois, (A word which the English translate "Johnny Raw,") For your thorough French Courtier, whenever the fit

he's in,

Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizen;

And perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapes,
In a nation which Voltaire, in one of his japes,
Defines "an amalgam of Tigers and Apes,"
Should be merely considered as "Little Escapes."

But I am sorry to add, Things are almost as bad

A great deal nearer home, and that similar pranks Amongst young men who move in the very first ranks, Are by no means confined to the land of the Franks.

Be this as it will, In the general, still,

Though blame him we must, It is really but just To our lively young friend, François Xavier Auguste, To say, that howe'er Well known his faults were, At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fair, And, when gambling his worst, always play'd on the

square;

So that, being much more of pigeon than rook, he
Lost large sums at faro (a game like "Blind Hookey"),

And continued to lose, And to give I O U's,
Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the Jews;
And, a parallel if I may venture to draw
Between François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix,
And his namesake, a still more distinguished François,

Who wrote to his "sœur"* From Pavia, "Mon
Cœur,

I have lost all I had in the world fors l'honneur."

* Mrs. Ingoldsby, who is deeply read in Robertson, informs me that this is a mistake: that the lady to whom this memorable billet was delivered by the hands of Pennalosa, was the unfortunate monarch's mamma, and not his sister. I would gladly rectify the error, but then, what am I to do for a rhyme?-On the whole, I fear I must content myself, like So St. Foix might have wrote No dissimilar note, "Vive la bagatelle! toujours gai-idem semperI've lost all I had in the world but-my temper!"

From the very beginning, Indeed of his sinning, His air was so cheerful, his manners so winning, That once he prevailed-or his friends coin the tale for

him

On the bailiff who "nabbed" him, himself to "go bail"

for him.

Well-we know in these cases

Your "Crabs" and "Deuce Aces"

Are wont to promote frequent changes of places;
Town doctors, indeed, are most apt to declare

That there's nothing so good as the pure "country

air,"

Whenever exhaustion of person, or purse, in
An invalid cramps him, and sets him a-cursing;
A habit, I'm very much grieved at divulging,
François Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge in.

But what could be done? It's clear as the sun, That, though nothing's more easy than say "Cut and run!"

Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of fun

Talleyrand, with admitting that "it is worse than a fault-it's a blunder!" for which enormity, -as honest old Pepys says when he records having kissed his cookmaid, -" I humbly beg pardon of Heaven, and Mrs. Ingoldsby!"

Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blue.

E'en I or you, If we'd nothing to do,

And, since no one denies What's so plain to all

eyes,

It won't, I am sure, create any surprise,

That reflections like these half reduced to despair François Xavier Auguste, the gay Black Mousquetaire.

Patience par force! He considered, of course,

But in vain-he could hit on no sort of resource-
Love?-Liquor?-Law?-Loo?

They would each of them do,
There's excitement enough in all four, but in none he
Could hope to get on sans l'argent-i.e., money.
Love?-no;-ladies like little cadeaux from a suitor.
Liquor?-no,-that won't do, when reduced to "the

Pewter."

Then Law?-'tis the same ; It's a very fine game, But the fees and delays of "the Courts" are a shame, As Lord Brougham says himself-who's a very great

name,

Though the Times made it clear he was perfectly lost

in his

Classic attempt at translating Demosthenes,

And don't know his "particles." Who wrote the
articles,

Showing his Greek up so, is not known very well;
Many thought Barnes, others Mitchell-some Merivale;

But it's scarce worth debate, Because from the

date

Of my tale one conclusion we safely may draw,
Viz.: 'twas not François Xavier Auguste de St. Foix!

Loo?-No; that he had tried; 'Twas, in fact, his
weak side,

But required more than any a purse well supplied. "Love?-Liquor?--Law?-Loo? No! 'tis all the same

story.

Stay! I have it-Ma foi! (that's "Odds Bobs!") there is GLORY!

"Away with dull care! Vive le Roi! Vive la Guerre!

Peste! I'd almost forgot I'm a Black Mousquetaire! When a man is like me, Sans six sous, sans souci,

A bankrupt in purse, And in character worse, With a shocking bad hat, and his credit at zero, What on earth can he hope to become, -but a Hero?

What a famous thought this is! I'll go as Ulysses Of old did-like him I'll see manners and know countries; *

Cut Paris, and gaming, and throats in the Low

Countries."

So said, and so done-he arranged his affairs,

And was off like a shot to his Black Mousquetaires.

*

Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes.

Who viewed men's manners, Londons, Yorks, and Derbys.