The horrid fellow with the ragged coat,
And iron throat,

Heedless of present honour and prosperity,
Sang like a Poet singing for posterity,
In penniless reliance-

And, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme
Never set Time

More thoroughly at defiance!

From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four
The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,

Expostulating at her open door

"Peace, monster, peace!

Where is the New Police!

I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,

Don't stand there bawling, fellow, don't! You really send my serious thoughts astray, Do-there's a dear good man-do go away." Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,'
That sounded like a wooden d-n,

For so some moral people, strictly loth

To swear in words, however up,

Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath-
In fact, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace
Than in a given face

A very bad expression.

However, in she went,

Leaving the subject of her discontent To Mr. Jones's Clerk at Number Ten; Who, throwing up the sash,

With accents rash,

Thus hailed the most vociferous of men :

66

Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant !

I cannot write a sentence-no one can't!

So just pack up your trumps,
And stir your stumps-"

Says he, "I shan't!"

Down went the sash

As if devoted to "eternal smash,"
(Another illustration

Of acted imprecation),

While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong, )

Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!

The Music-master could not stand it-
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand
As savage as a bandit,

Made up directly to the tattered man,
And thus in broken sentences began→
But playing first a prelude of grimace,
Twisting his features to the strangest shapes,
So that to guess his subject from his face,
He meant to give a lecture upon apes-

"Com-com-I say!

You go away!

Into two parts my head you split-
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,
When I do play-

You have no bis'ness in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he "I will."

"No-no-you scream and bawl!

You must not come at all!

You have no rights, by rights, to beg

You have not one off-leg

You ought to work-you have not some complaint

You are not cripple in your back or bones

Your voice is strong enough to break some stones

Says he "It ain't!"

"I say you ought to labour !

You are in a young case,

You have not sixty years upon your face,
To come and beg your neighbour,
And discompose his music with a noise
More worse than twenty boys-
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,

No coach, no horses, no postilion,
If you will sing, I say, it is not just,
To sing so loud."-Says he, "I MUST!
I'M SINGING FOR THE MILLION !"

THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT.

DAYS of old, O days of Knights,

Of tourneys and of tilts,

When love was balk'd and valour stalk'd
On high heroic stilts-

Where are ye gone?-adventures cease,

The world gets tame and flat,-
We've nothing now but New Police-
There's no Romance in that!

I wish I ne'er had learn'd to read,

Or Radcliffe how to write!

That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,

And Lewis cloister'd quite !

Would I had never drunk so deep

Of dear Miss Porter's vat;

I only turn to life, and weep

There's no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk-no turban'd Turk

To Tunis bears me off

I hear no noises in the night

Except my mother's cough,

No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,

No shape, but owl or bat,

Come flitting after moth or mouse,

There's no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess,

My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman's press;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I'm growing red and fat,

As if I lived on beef and ale-
There's no Romance in that!

It's very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That's worth a pen's report:
It really made my temper chase,
Each coast that I was at,

I vow'd, and rail'd, and came home safe,

There's no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance

At Brighton one fine day,

My chestnut mare began to prance,
Took fright, and ran away;

Alas! no Captain of the Tenth
To stop my steed came pat;

A Butcher caught the rein at length, —
There's no Romance in that!

Love-even love-goes smoothly on

A railway sort of track—

No flinty sire, no jealous Don!

No hearts upon the rack;

No Polydore, no Theodore

His ugly name is Mat,

Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more

There's no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall,
His forehead's rather low,
He is not pensive—not at all,

But smiles his teeth to show;
He comes from Wales and yet in size
Is really but a sprat ;

With sandy hair and greyish eyes—
There's no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,
Or long sword hanging down;

He dresses much like other folks,

And commonly in brown;

His collar he will not discard,

Or give up his cravat,

Lord Byron-like-he's not a Bard-
There's no Romance in that!

He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum ;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then-he's worth a plum.

He talks of stocks and three per cents.

By way of private chat,

Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,—

There's no Romance in that!

I sing no matter what I sing,

Di Tanti-or Crudel,

Tom Bowling, or God save the King,

Di piacer-All's Well;

Ile knows no more about a voice

For singing than a gnat―

And as to Music "has no choice,"

There's no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,

He never serenades ;

He writes, and sends it by the post,

He doesn't bribe the maids:

No stealth, no hempen ladder-no!

He comes with loud rat-tat,

That startles half of Bedford Row

There's no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee-just two cups,

And talks with Pa about the news,