Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear the whole

weight

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets'

rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up

in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse

without peer;

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

(7)

MORE HULLAH-BALOO.

By T. HOOD.

"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 ev'ry other century surpasses,
Is one, just now the rage,-

Call'd "Singing for all Classes ".
That is, for all the British millions,

That

And billions,

And quadrillions,

Not to name Quintilians,

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 stirr'd
Except some dingy little bird;

Or vagrant cur that sniff'd along,
Indifferent to the Son of Song;

No truant errand-boy, or Doctor's lad,
No idle filch or lounging cad,

No Pots encumber'd with diurnal beer, No printer's devil with an author's proof, Or housemaid on an errand far aloof,