BALLADS.

THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed can never be supplied.

GOLDSMITH.

BILL BLOSSOM was a nice young man,

And drove the Bury coach;

But bad companions were his bane,

And egged him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds,

And how to noose the hare;

And with a wiry terrier,

He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright,

To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore

That he had this demeritGive him an inch of warren, he

Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice;
And many, large and small,
Without Hall's powder, without lead,
Were sent to Leaden-Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer
From forest, park, or lawn;
And without courting lord or duke,
Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares-
His course they could not stop:
No barber he, and yet he made
Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe,
He tried the keeper's nerves;
They swore he never seemed to have
Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found
No sporting worth a pin,
Unless he tried the covers made
Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,
In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried

The Manors about Sutton.

No county from his tricks was safe;
In each he tried his lucks,
But when the keepers were in Beds,
He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas!
They always came to Herts;
And even Oxon used to wish
That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants,
Old Cheshire laid his plots;
He got entrapped by legal Berks,
And lost his life in Notts.

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"-MERCUTIO.

'T was twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,

Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup,"-
When, whiter than the table-cloth,
A GHOST came rising up!

"O, father dear, O, mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim-

You know when some one went to sea-
Don't cry-but I am him!

"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack,

But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!

"From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs,

But steering 'too much Sow' we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs!

"The Ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops;

When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart,
The very place it tells;

I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells.

"Well there we are till 'hands aloft,'
We have at last a call;

The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot too, and all.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest,
In Davy Jones's sod,

Till I've appeared to you and said—
Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!

"You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea;

Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.

That Cod was picking me!

"Those oysters too, that look so plump,

And seem so nicely done,

They put my corpse in many shells,

Instead of only one.