Arrived at ten-love-notes we pen,
Or read the papers through, sir;
If more we write, 'tis to indite
Perchance an I. O. U., sir.

What time comes lunch, at drinking punch
We pass a pleasant hour, sir,
Then yawn away, as best we may,
The time till it is four, sir.
Scarce work, &c.

Sometimes indeed, by way of change,
Our nails we pick or pare, sir,
Or through the lobbies chatting range,
Or lark from stair to stair, sir;
Or slyly pin to some one's skirt
Some dusting-cloth or stamp, sir,
Or watch for duns, who oft athwart
Our pleasures cast a damper.
Scarce work, &c.

Good luck be to the bees that hive
Our honey in such store, sir!
Long may they in their labours thrive,
And help to bring us more, sir!
A health to all who do their best

In such snug berths to moor us;
To thin us here would be, I fear,
To overcrowd the poor-house,
Scarce work, etc,

MACAULAY versus SCOTLAND.

["Such travesties of history cannot long survive the age in which they were written. No literary excellence; no airs of philosophic impartiality; no lofty pretensions to more than ordinary research, and much more than ordinary sagacity; no silver-toned press or golden exchequer, can long save them from the fate that awaits the ill-omened productions of learning without principle, of eloquence leaning on fables, and of talent in league with error.

“We have heard, though we cannot vouch for the truth of the story, that Thomas Carlyle, when exhorting a friend to amuse himself, after hard study, with light reading, and being asked what books he would recommend, replied, "Why Thackeray's last novel, or Macaulay's last volume, or any other of the best works of fiction." -From a review of Macaulay's History of England, by Hugh Miller.]

MACAULAY! Macaulay !
They surely miscall thee

To Scotland thy lineage who trace.
Thou a Scotchman! Good lack!

Scot alone in the "Mac"

One would think far more likely thy case.

The "Arabian Nights,"

So renowned for its flights,

We once deemed the sublime of romance;

But the gift to outshine

Its inventions is thine,

As thy "History" proves at a glance.

A History, forsooth!

What an outrage on truth Thus to title a tissue of lies! That we read it, 'tis true, Though 'tis only to view

Of thy figments the shape and the size.

Foul defamer of men

Whose stout limbs did disdain

To bow down at proud Prelacy's nod— Ages after thy name.

Is forgot, their fair fame

Shall be dear to their country and God.

The apologist now

Of a massacre ! thou

Might defy Nick himself to fib harder

When, with sophistry vile,

Thy pet prince to assoil,

Thou contrivest to justify murder.

O falsest of tongues!

O foulest of wrongs!

O prince that could sanction such deed!

"Out, out, damnéd spot!"

Though I fear thou will not,

Spite of all this smart sophist can plead.

Mac Mac do give o'er

This wild work: Let's once more List the tones of thy classical lyre. Stick, sir, stick to thy "Lays;" There alone we can praise— There alone thy inventions admire.

GARIBALDI THE BRAVE.

Written during the war of freedom in Italy.

OF all heroes known to fame
There is no one I could name
Who, Caprera's chief, can claim
Rank before thee!

Not as matchless in thy might
But as Freedom's champion bright
Dost thou fill the world's glad sight
With thy glory.

O who would not join that band
Who, on fair Italia's strand,

To a royal hunting grand

Hasten on with gun and glaive!

O who would not pant to be
In the vanguard of the free,
To the fight led on by thee,
Garibaldi the brave!

See him in the battle's van
His stern veterans leading on!-
What cares he though ten to one
May the foe seem?

Swift as lightning cleaves the air

Springs he at them-Bruce-like, there
Dealing death to all who dare
To oppose him!

In the battle's wildest roar

Making havoc evermore,

Like Achilles famed of yore,

A charmed life he seems to have! Where his falchion flashes bright, Never doubtful is the fight.

God defend thee and the Right,
Garibaldi the brave!

Ever honoured may they be
Who from lands already free

Haste to do or die where he
Moves victorious.

Vain may Austria brow-beat,
Vain may Pius execrate :

See where Tuscany's crowned cheat
Flies, inglorious !

See where Parma's prince abhorred
Cowers beneath fair Freedom's sword!

Lo, where Naples' heartless lord

On his knees doth mercy crave!