In many a martial ear,

And, midst the tumult and the row,
Is seen the Tailor's anxious bow,
And Woman's anxious tear.
Alas! the thousand cares that float
To-day around a scarlet coat!

There's Sergeant Cross, in fume and fret,
With little Mopsa, the coquette,
Close clinging to his side:

Who, if fierce Mars and thundering Jove
Had had the least respect for love,
To-day had been his bride-

And, midst the trumpet's wild acclaim,

She calls upon her lover's name

In beautiful alarm;

Still looking up expectantly

To see the tear-drop in his eye,
Still hanging to his arm;

And he the while-his fallen chop
Most eloquently tells

That much he wishes little Mop

Were waiting for-another drop,

Or hanging-somewhere else.

Poor Captain Mill! what sounds of fear
Break sudden on his startled ear!

On right and left, above, around him,

Tom, the horse-dealer, roars, "Confound him! A pretty conscience his;

To ruin thus my finest bay,

And hurry off, like smoke, to-day,--
If there's no law, some other way,
By Jove, he'll smart for this!"
Ah! fly, unhappy, while you can!
The Captain is a dangerous man,
A right old Jockey's son!
Ah! fly, unhappy, while you may!
The Captain first knocks up the Bay,
And then-knocks down the Dun!

Old Larry is as brave a soul

As ever drained an English bowl;
His head and heart alike are tried;
And when two comrades have applied
Or hand to sword, or lip to pewter,
Old Larry never yet was neuter.
But now the Hero (like a fool
Ripe from a milksop boarding-school,
In love or fortune crossed),

Silent, and pale, and stupid, stands,
Scratches his head with both his hands,

And fears the hostile Host.

Oh! can it be? are hearts of stone
So small, and soft, and silky grown,
That Larry fears a lick?

Oh! wrong not thus his closing years, 'Tis not the Host of France he fears, But of the Candlestick.

The Brute is there!-in long array,
All clean set down from day to day,
The dreaded figures stalk;

The Veteran, with his honest blows,
Can settle well a Score of Foes,
But not a Score of Chalk.
Alas! alas! that warrior hot
Balls from ten-pounders feareth not,
But Bills for pennies three;

And if he trembles, well I wot
He would not care for Gallic shot,
So here he were shot-free.

Fat Will the Butcher, in a pet,
His furious fang hath sharply set
On luckless Captain Martinette,
And thus the booby cries:
"Don't kick.—As sure as eggs is eggs
You will not have me off my legs,
Captain, although you tries;

And you must know, good Sir, as how
I mean to ha' my money now,

Or know the whens and whys." The little Captain, whom 'twould kill To be a public scoff,

Shuffles, and whispers" Honest Will, For forty shillings is your bill—

Take twenty-and be off.”

The Butcher, much a friend to fun,

And somewhat apt to laugh or pun,
Stands grinning like his calves;
Till for his joke his debt he barters—

"Sir, Gemmen, when they change their quarters, Shouldn't do things by halves."

He, too, the pride of war, is there,
Victorious Major Ligonier.

A soldier he from boot to plume,
In tented field, or crowded room,
Magnanimous in martial guise,

He eats, and sleeps, and swears, and lies;
Like no poor cit the man behaves,
And when he picks his teeth, or shaves,

He picks his teeth with warlike air,
And mows his beard en militaire.
But look! his son is by his side,
More like a young and blushing bride
Than one in danger's hour,

All madly doomed to run and ride,
And stem the Battle's whelming tide,
And face its iron shower.

In peace too warm, in war too cold,
Although with girls he's very bold,
With men he's somewhat shy;
Nature could not two gifts afford,
And so she did not make his sword
So killing as his eye.

Is there an eye which nothing sees,

In what it views to-day,

To whisper deeper thoughts than these,
And wake a graver lay?

Ah, think not thus! when Lovers part,
When weeping eye and trembling heart
Speak more than words can say;
It ill becomes my jesting song
To run so trippingly along,

And on these trifling themes bestow
What ought to be a note of woe.

I see young Edward's courser stand,
The bridle rests upon his hand;

But beauteous Helen lingers yet,
With throbbing heart, and eyelid wet;
And as she speaks in that sweet tone
Which makes the listener's soul its own,
And as she heaves that smothered sigh
Which Lovers cannot hear and fly,
In Edward's face looks up the while,
And longs to weep, yet seems to smile.

"Fair forms may fleet around, my love! And lighter steps than mine,

And sweeter tones may sound, my love!
And brighter eyes may shine;

But wheresoever thou dost rove,
Thou wilt not find a heart, my love,