THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS.

"Incipiunt magni procedere menses."-VIRGIL.
(1830.)

WE'RE sick of this distressing state
Of order and repose;

We have not had enough of late
Of blunders or of blows;
We can't endure to pass our life
In such a humdrum way;
We want a little pleasant strife:
The Whigs are in to-day !

Our worthy fathers were content
With all the world's applause,

They thought they had a Parliament,
And liberty, and laws.

It's no such thing; we've wept and groaned
Beneath a despot's sway;

We've all been whipped and starved and stoned :
The Whigs are in to-day!

We used to fancy Englishmen
Had broken Europe's chain,
And won a battle now and then
Against the French in Spain;
Oh no! we never ruled the waves,
Whatever people say;

We've all been despicable slaves:
The Whigs are in to-day!

It's time for us to see the things
Which other folks have seen,

It's time we should cashier our kings,
And build our guillotine;

We'll abrogate Police and Peers,
And vote the Church away;
We'll hang the parish overseers:
The Whigs are in to-day!

We'll put the landlords to the rout,
We'll burn the College Halls,
We'll turn St. James's inside out
And batter down St. Paul's.
We'll hear no more of Bench or Bar;
The troops shall have no pay;
We'll turn adrift our men-of-war ;

The Whigs are in to-day!

We fear no bayonet or ball

From those who fight for hire,

For Baron Brougham has told them all
On no account to fire;

Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,
But Baron Brougham, we pray,
Will strip the ermine from his back:
The Whigs are in to-day!

Go pluck the jewels from the crown,
The colours from the mast;

And let the Three per Cents come down,
We can but break at last;

If Cobbett is the first of men,
The second is Lord Grey;

Oh, must we not be happy, when
The Whigs are in to-day!

SONG. WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?
AIR-"Sweet Kitty Clover."

WHERE is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I-am left all alone!

She flies to the window when Arundel rings,-
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings, —
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

Her love and my love are different things;
And I-am left all alone!

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

She told me such horrors were ne'er worn now:
And I-am left all alone!

But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,
And I guess who it came from-of course I don't care!
We all know that girls are as false as they're fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear :
And I-am left all alone!

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side:
And I-am left all alone!

And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl ;-
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;
And I-am left all alone!

She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;
And I am left all alone!

But a fire's in my heart, and a fire's in my brain, When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane; I don't think I ever can ask her again :

Where is she gone, where is she gone?

And, Lord! since the summer she's grown very plain;
And I am left all alone!

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?

And how should I guess that she'd torture me so ?
And I-am left all alone!

Some day she'll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs;
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize :
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;
And I'll be no longer alone!

THE CONFESSION.

"FATHER-Father-I confess-
Here he kneeled and sighed,
When the moon's soft loveliness
Slept on turf and tide.

In my ear the prayer he prayed
Seems to echo yet;

But the answer that I made

Father-I forget!

Ora pro me!

"Father-Father-I confess-
Precious gifts he brought;
Satin sandal, silken dress;
Richer ne'er were wrought;
Gems that make the daylight dim,
Plumes in gay gold set ;-
But the gaud I gave to him-
Father-I forget!

Ora pro me !

"Father-Father-I confess-
He's my beauty's thrall,
In the lonely wilderness,
In the festive hall;

All his dreams are aye of me,

Since our young hearts met;
What my own may sometimes be---
Father-I forget!

Ora pro me!"

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN LADY MYRTLE'S "BOCCACCIO."

IN these gay pages there is food

For every mind and every mood,

Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them : Now merriment-now grief prevails; But yet the best of all the tales

Is of the young group met to tell them.

Oh, was it not a pleasant thought
To set the pestilence at nought,

Chatting among sweet streams and flowers