They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his Ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a Veskit red). To see that carriage come, The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" "Your Royal Ighness, yes." He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone; And X, although the people push, Says wary kind, "Move hon." The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear duke, my little son and you Was born the self same day. "The Lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here. "That lady is as well As can expected be; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free. "That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see, To show our honor for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be. "That name it rhymes to fame; All Europe knows the sound: And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound. "King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em I'll be bound. "You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib; I name you then with all my heart The Godsire of this babe." That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son. And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy His little catechism. And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere. And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X. * The birth of Prince Arthur. THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. Galliant gents and lovely ladies, List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings: (Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things!) In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where-- Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her. Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look: Tarry jacket, canvass trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal-- "Pray," saysee, "excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal! "You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size, Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my heyes!" "I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you!