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!

Ura 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