St. George for old England! but this rabble crew
Of Republican rascals, ah! if he but knew,

He would start from his grave, and all armed cap-à-pie,
Would teach them that freedom was meant for the free,
The true and the honest, and spurn 'neath his heel,
A foulness not worthy of striking with steel.

Then, Englishmen-Gentlemen-stand to your vow,
Would you 'gainst your mothers or sisters allow
A word of reproach to be uttered in vain?

You would not need a lance, should you carry a cane!
And cavaliers all-but you know what I mean—

St. George for old England, and God bless the Queen!

Do you remember, when over the sea
The winds were piping so merrilie,

When we loosed our skiff from Fell-gate pier,
And pulled out to sea, without thought or fear?
How the winds leapt up, with the waves at play,
As we anchored our boat in Black-rock bay-

And how the rough boatman funked, and swore
We should catch him at that game

66

We wanted to bathe, Ted, you and I,

never no more?'

And little cared we, though the waves ran high:

Do you remember our hurried plunge,

The hiss of the water, the desperate lunge,

As we crept at last within the boat,

And in Black-rock bay were once more afloat?

How the wind increased, and the white waves rose,
As our boatman sulked, and swore that those
Deserved to be drowned who could put to sea
To please two fools, Ted, you and me?
How I had muscle, and you had not,

So you sat in the stern, and steered "The Dot;
While against the waves, as they rose and dipt,
I bent the oars and pulled half-stript?
How we sped away with the racing tide,
As the billows bit at our boat's frail side;
How we beat the waves in their mad career,
And flew fast, flew straight, for Fell-gate pier?
Do you remember the faint "Bravo!"
When we shot the skiff o'er the surf below;
The waving caps, and the ringing roar
Of cheers which welcomed us safe to shore ?
How something was said of a plucky deed,
As we ran up the steps at our utmost speed.
But had we failed, Ted, you and I,
Would our foolish freak have earned a sigh?

WOT! Sell 'er-Fanny, my beauty,

My little wite tarrier dawg?

Why, the thought o' a-partin' with 'er,
Makes my heyes grow as dim as a fawg.
She his a rare-bred un, now hain't she?
But that 'ere hisn't nuthin' to say!
Wy, she's wuth 'er weight in dimonds,
As I've prov'd, Sir, hafore to-day.
She's none o' y'r rotten-hair'd uns-
Wot they breeds so hin an' hin;
But 'er coat's jist a bit o' wite satin,
She's as bright as a bran'-new pin.

Well, Sir, you've a-made me a hoffer,
An' a gennelman's price hit seem;
But whenever I parts with Fanny,
I must be low down on my beam.
I's bin a long time hin the bizniss,
An' I's bred a few dawgs hin my day;
Jist look at the beauty now, Sir—
Haint she chock-full o' life an' play?
But she's gittin' a little bit hon in years;
It wos Michaelmas, three year ago,
Since she saved my life hup Nor'wards;
By gor! hit wer' touch an' go.

Well, I don't mind hif I does tell yer,
Has you've tookt sich a fancy to Fan;
But I never forgits my place, Sir,
Tho' I ham but a dawg-dealin' man.
Well, bizniss wer' gittin' werry slack,
So she says (my missus to me),

"Leave the blessed dawgs with y'r brother, Bill, An' take me hout for a spree."

So I turns it hall hover an' hover,

Has I sits and smokes by the fire;

S'pose, hold gal, we looks hup y'r huncle

'Im wot lives hin that Lankyshire?

We'll take 'im the little bitch, Poll,"

Says I to my missus says I;

"'E 'asn't 'ad sich a bred-un

For a many a year gone by."
So hoff we goes nex' mornin,'
Hin the parlerermentary train-
Halmost as long as their speeches,
An' habout as slow in the main ;
An' we gits to our designashun,

H