His visage is dark, his garb grotesque,
And he wears a touch of the picturesque,
A certain chic which possibly springs

From his horror of soap and of such-like things.
Alerte, caballitos!

To him there is little or no romance

In the mountain border of Spain and France; But how he would wonder and stare, poor man,

At a moment's view of a Pickford's van.

Alerte, caballitos!

THE BALLAD OF THE BARYTONE.

A SIMPLE barytone am I

A thing of light and joy;

And peacefully my days go by

As when I was a boy.

Of Rank and Fame let worldlings dream,

They have no charms for me;

Far, far above them I esteem

My own-my upper G.

Oh music! sure thou dost belong

To soft Italia's clime,

Where Life and Love and sunny Song

Seem ever in their prime.

The feebler ballads of the North

Are much too cold for me;

'Tis not for these I summon forth My own-my upper G.

I love the Bacchanalian strain

In which Parisians deal;

And that which dark-eyed sons of Spain

Attempt in Old Castille.

No matter from what favour'd spot

The melody may be ;

Provided it transcendeth not

My own--my upper G.

It greets me in my festal hours,
It brings my gloom relief;

It sprinkles life with loveliest flowers
And plucks the sting from grief.
I'd smile at poverty and pain ;

I'd welcome death with glee—

If till the last I might retain

My own-my upper G!

SONGS OF THE SICK ROOM.

No. I. COD LIVER OIL.

N the bleak shore of Norway, I've lately been told,

ΟΝ

Large numbers of cod-fish are found,

And the animals' livers are afterwards sold

At so many "pfennigs" per pound; From which is extracted, with infinite toil,

A villainous fluid called cod-liver oil!

Now, I don't mind a powder, a pill, or a draught—
Though I mingle the former with jam-

And many's the mixture I've cheerfully quaff'd,
And the pill I have gulp'd like a lamb.

But then I envelop my pills in tin-foil,

And I can't do the same with my cod-liver oil!

In the course of my lifetime I've swallow'd enough

To have floated a ship of the line,

And it's purely the fault of this horrible stuff
That I've ceased to enjoy ginger wine.
For how can you wonder to see me recoil

From a liquor I mix'd with my cod-liver oil?

There are few deeds of daring from which I should quail—

There are few things I'd tremble to do—

But there's one kind of tonic that makes me turn pale,

And quite spoils my appetite, too;

But, you see, just at present, I've got none to spoil

So I don't mind alluding to cod-liver oil!

THEY brought to my couch (I had not slept a wink,

For brooding all night on my ills)

A neat-looking bottle of something to drink,

And a neat-looking box full of pills.