LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER.

FROM THE GERMAN.

"Ach, Gretchen, mein täubchen."

O GRETEL, my Dove, my heart's Trumpet,
My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket,
O hear me, my mild little Dove,

Your portrait, my Gretel, is always on guard,

Is always attentive to Love's parole and watchword;
Your picture is always going the rounds,
My Gretel, I call at every hour!

My heart's Knapsack is always full of you ;
My looks, they are quartered with you;
And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge,
Then I think that I give you a kiss.

You alone are my Word of Command and orders,
Yea, my Right-face, Left-face, Brown Tommy, and wine,
And at the word of command "Shoulder Arms!"

Then I think you say "Take me in your arms.

Your eyes sparkle like a Battery,

Yea, they wound like Bombs and Grenades;
As black as Gunpowder is your hair,
Your hand as white Parading breeches!

Yes, you are the Match and I am the Cannon;
Have pity, my love, and give quarter,
And give the word of command "Wheel round
Into my heart's Barrack Yard."

880

ANACREONTIC,

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse or fit season,

For toasts to be honored, or pledges to pass,

Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For, hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,
Had finished the months, like the flasks at a feast,
Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
The past Year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey—
Days ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!

Hip Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bowed to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently passed,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury——
Still, fill to the future! and join in our chime,

The regrets of remembrance to cozen,

And having obtained a New Trial of Time,

Shout, in hopes of a kindlier dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

MORE HULLAHBALOO.

"Loud as from numbers without number."-MILTON,

"You may do it extempore, for it's nothing but roaring."-QUINCE

AMONGST the great inventions of this age,
Which every other century surpasses,

Is one-just now the rage

แ

Called Singing for all Classes"— That is, for all the British millions,

And billions,

And quadrillions,

Not to name Quintilians,

That now, alas! have no more ear than asses, To learn to warble like the birds in June,

In time and tune,

Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!

In fact, a sort of plan,
Including gentleman as well as yokel,

Public or private man,
To call out a militia-only Vocal,

Instead of Local,

And not designed for military follies,

But keeping still within the civil border,
To form with mouths in open order,

And sing in volleys.

Whether this grand Harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,

And tend to British happiness and glory,

Maybe no, and maybe yes,

Is more than I pretend to guess— However, here's my story.

In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats

To shun the daily bustle and the noise
The shoppy Strand enjoys,

But Law, Joint Companies, and Life Assurance,
Find past endurance--

In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear,
The other day, a ragged wight,
Began to sing with all his might,

"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The place was lonely, not a creature stirred,
Except some little dingy bird;

Or vagrant cur that sniffed along,
Indifferent to the Son of Song;
No truant errand-boy, or doctor's lad,
No idle Filch, or lounging cad,

No pots encumbered with diurnal beer,
No printer's devil with an author's proof,
Or housemaid on an errand far aloof,

Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear—
Who yet, confound him! bawled as loud
As if he had to charm a London crowd,
Singing beside the public way,
Accompanied instead of violin,
Flute, or piano, chiming in-

By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray,
A van with iron bars to play staccato,
Or engine obligato—

In short, without one instrument vehicular
(Not even a truck, to be particular),
There stood the rogue and roared,
Unasked and unencored,

Enough to split the organs called auricular!

Heard in that quiet place,

Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling!
To seek a fitting simile and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,

His voice had all Lablache's body in it;
But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,
And was in fact,

Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!

'T was said, indeed, for want of vocal nous,

The stage had banished him, when he attempted it, For tho' his voice completely filled the house, It also emptied it. However, there he stood Vociferous-a ragged don!

And with his iron pipes laid on

A row to all the neighborhood.

In vain were sashes closed,

And doors against the persevering Stentor,
Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed,
Th' intruding voice would enter,
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,
Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum ;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attended schools,
Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em-
How it did bore 'em!

Louder, and louder still

The fellow sang with horrible goodwill,