"She makes me fire a gun," said BAGG;
"And at a preconcerted word,
Climb up a ladder with a flag,
Like any street-performing bird.

"She places sugar in my way—

In public places calls me 'Sweet!'
She gives me groundsel every day
And hard canary seed to eat."

"Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!" (Said BAINES) "Be good enough to stop." And senseless on the floor he fell With unpremeditated flop.

Bab

Said CAPTAIN BAGG, "Well, really I
Am grieved to think it pains you so.
I thank you for your sympathy;

But, hang it-come-I say, you know!"

But BAINES lay flat upon the floor,
Convulsed with sympathetic sob-
The Captain toddled off next door,
And gave the case to MR. COBB.

IN all the towns and cities fair

On Merry England's broad expanse, No swordsman ever could compare With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,

Divide a leg of mutton too

And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ-
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare

To hew and slash, behind, before— Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE, Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;

He was the bravest man in France-
He said so, and he ought to know.

་་

"Regardez, donc, ce cochon gres-Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu !

Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots! Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu !

"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack-

Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi-
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad

Cut lead and mutton more and more; And every day, poor PIERRE, half mad, Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless, village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM's rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;"

And so she left her leafy cot,

And walked to Dover in a day.

PIERRE had a doting mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage:
His ma was nearly ninety-two,
And rather dressy for her age.

At HANCE's doings every morn,

With sheer delight his mother cried;

And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn Filled his mamma with proper pride.