"NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW.”

By a dream held in charm,

He uplifts his right arm,

For he dreams of reviewing his host.

To the stable he glides,

For the charger he rides;

And he mounts him, still under the spell;
Then, with echoing tramp,

They proceed through the camp,
All intent on a task he loves well.

Such a sight soon alarms,

And the guards present arms,
As he glides to the posts that they keep;
Then he gives the brief word,

And the bugle is heard,

Like a hound giving tongue in its sleep.

Next the drums they arouse,

But with dull row-de-dows,

And they give but a somnolent sound;
Whilst the foot and horse, both,

Very slowly and loth,

Begin drowsily mustering roun·l.

To the right and left hand,
They fall in, by command,

In a line that might better be dress'd;
Whilst the steeds blink and nod,

And the lancers think odd

To be rous'd like the spears from their rest

With their mouths of wide shape,
Mortars seem all agape,

Heavy guns look more heavy with sleep;

And, whatever their bore,

Seem to think it one more

In the night such a field day to keep.

Then the arms, christened small
Fire no volley at all,

But go off, like the rest, in a doze ;

401

And the eagles, poor things,

Tuck their heads 'neath their wings,
And the band ends in tunes through the nose.

Till each pupil of Mars

Takes a wink like the stars-
Open order no eye can obey!

If the plumes in their heads
Were the feathers of beds,
Never top could be sounder than they!

So, just wishing good night,
Bows Napoleon, polite;
But instead of a loyal endeavour
To reply with a cheer;

Not a sound met his ear,

Though each face seem'd to say, "Nap for ever!"

ODE TO DR. KITCHENER.

E Muses nine inspire

And stir up my poetic fire;
Teach my burning soul to speak
With a bubble and a squeak!

Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing,

Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring.

O culinary sage!

(I do not mean the herb in use,
That always goes along with goose)

How have I feasted on thy page:
"When like a lobster boil'd the morn
From black to red began to turn,"

Till midnight, when I went to bed,
And clapt my tewah-diddle on my head.

Who is there cannot tell,

Thou leadest a life of living well?

"What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire

Lives half so well as a holy Fry-er ?”

In doing well thou must be reckon'd
The first, and Mrs. Fry the second;
And twice a Job,-for, in thy fev'rish toils,
Thou wast all over roasts-as well as boils.

Thou wast indeed no dunce,

To treat thy subjects and thyself at once:
Many a hungry poet eats

His brains like thee,

But few there be

Could live so long on their receipts.

What living soul or sinner

Would slight thy invitation to a dinner,

Ought with the Danaides to dwell,
Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear

For ever in his ear

The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.

Immortal Kitchener! thy fame

Shall keep itself when Time makes game Of other men's-yea, it shall keep, all weathers, And thou shalt be upheld by thy pen feathers. Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly!

Thy name shall perish never,

But be magnified for ever

-By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly.
Yea, till the world is done-

-To a turn-and Time puts out the sun,
Shall live the endless echo of thy name.

But, as for thy more fleshy frame,

Ah! Death's carnivorous teeth will tittle

Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold victual; But still thy fame shall be among the nations Preserved to the last course of generations.

Ah me, my soul is touch'd with sorrow!
To think how flesh must pass away-
So mutton, that is warm to-day,

Is cold, and turn'd to hashes, on the morrow!
Farewell! I would say more, but I
Have other fish to fry.

THE CIGAR.

OME sigh for this and that;
My wishes don't go far ;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.

Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar,

I don't care which is in,
So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote,
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.

Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war;

I care not-I'm at peace,
So I have my cigar.

I never see the Post,

I seldom read the Star; The Globe I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar.

They tell me that Bank Stock

Is sunk much under par;
It's all the same to me,
So I have my cigar.

Honours have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter-I can wait,
So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not;
A cab or glory's car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.