“The lasses o’ Carel are weel-shap’d an’ bonny, But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear, You may follow and follow till heart sick and weary— To get them needs siller and fine claes to wear. “They’ll catch at a reed cwoat leyke as monie mack’rel, And jump at a fop, or even lissen a fuil, Just brag of an uncle that’s got heaps of money, And de’il a bit odds if you’ve ne’er been at schuil. _The Lasses of Carel._ “Deuce tek the clock! click-clackin’ sae Ay in a body’s ear, It tells and tells the teyme is past, When Jobby sud been here. * * * * * “But, whisht! I hear my Jobby’s fit; Aye, that’s his varra clog! He steeks the faul yeat softly tui— _Oh, hang that cwoley dog!_” _The Impatient Lassie._ If as Mr. Sidney Herbert has informed us this nation be suffering from a glut of females—if as the commercial editor of the _Economist_ would say, the extreme depression of our matrimonial markets be due to an over-production of spinsters—if the annual supply of marriageable young ladies in this country be greater than the demand for the same on the part of marriageable young gentlemen—if virgin loveliness is becoming as cheap as slop shirts in the land, and the market value of heiresses has fallen considerably below their real value—if Cupid is compelled to dispose of the extensive stock he has now on hand of last season’s beauties, at an “ALARMING SACRIFICE,” on account of the “TREMENDOUS FAILURE” of Hymen—assuredly the Great Exhibition of all Nations was a wise means of restoring the matrimonial markets of the metropolis to a healthy equilibrium.