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Have turn'd a tavern shindy to a seriouser

rumpus, And him as knows most hymns—altho' I can't see

how it follers, They want to be the Chairman of the Glorious

Appollers !

Well, that's the row—and who can guess the up

shot after all ? Whether Harmony will ever make the “Arms”

her House of call, Or whether this here mobbing—as some longish

heads foretell it, Will grow to such a riot that the Oxford Blues

must quell it, Howsomever, for the present, there's no sign of

any peace, For the hubbub keeps a growing, and defies the

New Police ;But if I was in the Vestry, and a leading sort of

Man, Or a Member of the Vocals, to get backers for my

plan, Why I'd settle all the squabble in the twinkle of

For I'd needle

For I'd have another candidate—and that's the

Parish Beadle, Who makes such lots of Poetry, himself, or else

by proxy, And no one never has no doubts about his or

thodoxy;

Whereby—if folks was wise—instead of either

of them Scholars, And straining their own lungs along of contradic

tious hollers, They 'll lend their ears to reason, and take my

advice as follers, Namely—Bumble for the Chairman of the Glo

rious Appollers!

EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.

It was a young maiden went forth to ride,
And there was a wooer to pace by her side ;
His horse was so little, and hers so high,
He thought his Angel was up in the sky.

II.

His love was great, tho' his wit was small;
He bade her ride easy—and that was all.
The very horses began to neigh,-
Because their betters had nought to say.

III.

They rode by elm, and they rode by oak,
They rode by a church-yard, and then he spoke:-
“ My pretty maiden, if you 'll agree
You shall always ramble through life with me.”.

IV.

The damsel answer'd him never a word,
But kick’d the gray mare, and away she spurr’d.
The wooer still follow'd behind the jade,
And enjoy’d—like a wooer—the dust she made.

They rode thro’ moss, and they rode thro'moor,—
The gallant behind and the lass before ;-
At last they came to a miry place,
And there the sad wooer gave up the chase.

VI.

Quoth he, “ If my nag were better to ride,
I'd follow her over the world so wide.
Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail,
But I've lost the last glimpse of the gray mare's

tail !”

AN OPEN QUESTION.

" It is the king's highway, that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions." —BUNYAN.

I. What! shut the Gardens ! lock the latticed gate !

Refuse the shilling and the Fellow's ticket ! And hang a wooden notice up to state,

“On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!” The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race

Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case

Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday,
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

II.
The Gardens,—so unlike the ones we dub

Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,-
Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,--
Wherefore should they be closed like public-

houses ? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,

Nor rum—nor gin—not even of a MondayThe Lion is not carved—or gilt—or red,

And does not send out porter of a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

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