When he wants, after having stood up to say grace,*
To sit down to his haggis, and can't find a place ;

You remember his stare

At the high-back'd arm-chair,

Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is there,
And how, after saying "What man dares I dare!

He proceeds to declare

He should not so much care

"

If it came in the shape of a "tiger" or "bear,"
But he don't like it shaking its long gory hair!
While the obstinate Ghost, as determined to brave him,

With a horrible grin,

Sits, and cocks up his chin,

Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave him.

And Lennox and Rosse

Seem quite at a loss

If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauce; And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly cross,

And says in a huff

It's all "Proper stuff! "

All this you 'll have seen, Reader, often enough;
So, perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notion
Of what must have been François Xavier's emotion

If you fancy what troubled
Macbeth to be doubled,

And, instead of one Banquo to stare in his face
Without " speculation," suppose he'd a brace !

I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I believe was exceeded in painting the terrible,

تم

Or that of Sir Joshua

Reynolds, who was so a

droit in depicting it-vide his piece

Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease,

Where that prelate is lying

Decidedly dying,

With the King and his suite,

Standing just at his feet,

And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet;
While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner,

"Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner.

But painting's an art I confess I am raw in,

The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing,

Had I done so, instead

Of the lines you have read,

I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with

dread;

François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed,

His hands widely spread,

His complexion like lead,

Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head,
As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view
Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw,
Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo,
"Mon Dieu! v'la deux!!

BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO!!!

He fell back-one long aspiration he drew.

In flew De la Roue,

And Count Cordon Bleu,

:

Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew.
He stirr'd not, he spoke not, --he none of them knew!

And Achille cried "Odzooks!

I fear, by his looks,

Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!"

'Twas too true!

Malheureux!!

It was done!- he had ended his earthly career,

He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear;

-The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!!

L'Envoy.

A moral more in point I scarce could hope
Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope.

If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay,
And pious Maid, -as, possibly, it may, -
From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene
Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green;
O'er some pale marble when they join their heads
To kiss the falling tears each other sheds;
Oh! may they pause!-and think, in silent awe,
He, that he reads the words, " Ci git St. Foix!"
She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys
Bears this sad line, -" Híc jacet Sœur Therese!"-
Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say,
"Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"-
And if at such a time some Bard there be,
Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea
And sentimental song-like Ingoldsby-
If such there be-who sings and sips so well,
Let him this sad, this tender story tell !
Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast,
"I've 'scaped the Broken Heart! "-" and I the Ghost!!"

THE next in order of these "lays of many lands" refers to a period far earlier in point of date, and has for its scene the banks of what our Teutonic friends are wont to call their "own imperial River!" The incidents which it records afford sufficient proof (and these are days of demonstration), that a pro-. pensity to flirtation is not confined to age or country, and that its consequences were not less disastrous to the mail-clad Ritter of the dark ages than to the silken courtier of the seventeenth century. The whole narrative bears about it the stamp of truth, and from the papers among which it was discovered I am inclined to think it must have been picked up by Sir Peregrine in the course of one of his valetudinary visits to "The German Spa."

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS.

A LEGEND OF GERMANY.

IR RUPERT THE FEARLESS, a gallant young

knight,

Was equally ready to tipple or fight,
Crack a crown, or a bottle,
Cut sirloin, or throttle;

In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle,"
Unstain'd by dishonour, unsullied by fear,
All his neighbours pronounced him a preux chevalier.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental,
He had one slight defect, viz. a rather lean rental ;
Besides, as 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun,
So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one ;

Being rather unthinking,

He'd scarce sleep a wink in

A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking,
And what moralists say,

Is as naughty-to play,

To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarté ;
Till these, and a few less defensible fancies

Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing,
And tenants refusing

Their rents, swearing "times were so bad they were losing,"