"Yes, I know as well as you, dear, it's the proper thing to do,

dear;

And I'm not afraid of fighting, (as I think I said before ;) But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war.

"No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion; Not the lances of the Paynim, but the passage in the gale, When the awful cry of Steward' from the windward and the

leeward,

From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!”

"Yes, I know you 're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly; But you'll take a cup of sherris or a little Malvoisie,

When you get as far as Dover ;-and when once you're half

seas over,

Why you'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."

So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,
And, it may be, just a trifle discontented with his lot;
But whether he got sick, or felt the better for the liquor
That his lady reccmmended, this deponent sayeth not.

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

No 1. COSSIMBAZAR.

OME fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from

afar.

"Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins

are nigh,

And the depths of the jungle re-echo their

cry.

Pestonjee Bomanjee!

Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,

Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.

Stick to thy music, and oh! let the sound

Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.

Famsetjee Feejeebhoy!

Sweep the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir-a blinded Parsee ?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

Cursetjee Bomanjee!

Twang the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

No. 2. SARAGOSSA.

EPITA, my paragon, bright star of Arragon;
Listen, dear, listen; your Cristobal sings.
From my cot that lies buried a short way
from Lerida

Love and a diligence lent me their wings.
Swift as a falcon I flew to thy balcony.

(Is it bronchitis? I can't sing a bar.)

Greet not with merriment Love's first experi

ment;

Listen, Pepita! I've brought my catarrh.

Manuel the matador may, like a flat, adore

Donna Dolores: I pity his choice,

For they say that her governor lets neither lover nor

Any one else hear the sound of her voice.

Brother Bartolomé (stoutish Apollo) may

Sigh for Sabina—you 'll pardon this cough ?

And Isabel's votary, Nunez the notary,

Vainly (That sneeze again? Loved one, I'm off!)

No. 3. CLARENS.

AKE Leman wooes me with its crystal

face

(That observation is the late Lord

Byron's)

And Chillon seems a damp unpleasant

place

(Where Bonnivard, poor soul, got

clapt in irons.)

Beside me Vevey lies, romantic town,

(I wish the weather were not quite

so damp,)

And, not far distant, Alpine summits

frown

(Ah, just what I expected. That's the cramp!)