“_Beggars_, Mr. Bosky, must not be choosers!” “Something heroic? Wonderful General Wolfe, Uncommon brave; partic'lar! Swam over the Persian Gulf, And climb'd rocks perpendic'lar! Sentimental and tender? 'The mealy potato it grows In your garden, Miss Maddison cries; 'So I cannot walk there, for I knows, Like love--that potatoes have _eyes!_'” “No buffoonery, if you please, Benjamin Bosky,” cried Uncle Tim. “Or furiously funny--eh?” My pipe at your peeper I'll light, So pop out your jazey so curly; A jorum of _yeast_ over night, Will make you next morning _rise_ early! Arrah I thro' your casement and blind I'll jist sky a copper and toss one,, If you do not, Miss Casey, look kind, Wid your good-natured eye that's a _cross_ one!” “My good friends,” sighed the middle-aged gentleman, “this unhappy nephew of mine hath as many ballads in his budget as Sancho Panza had proverbs in his belly. And yet--but he seems determined to break my heart.” Mr. Bosky appeared more bent upon cruelly cracking Uncle Timothy's sides. “Now I bethink me of a ditty of true love, full of mirth and pastime.” And Mr. Bosky began in a droll falsetto, and with mock gravity, THE LAST OF THE PIGTAILS. “When I heard she was married, thinks I to myself, I'm now an old bachelor laid on the shelf; The last of the Pigtails that smok'd at the Sun, My Dora has done me, and I am undone! I call'd at her lodgings in Dean Street, Soho; My love's gone for ever! alas! she's no go. A nip of prime Burton shall warm my cold blood, Since all my enjoyments are nipp'd in the bud! The picture of famine, my frame half reduced; I can't eat a quarter the vittles I us'd! O dear! what can ail me? I once was so hale-- When my head's underground let this verse tell my tale. I sought the Old Bailey, despairing and lank, To take my last cut of boil'd buttock and flank, To sniff my last sniff in those savoury scenes, And sigh my last sigh over carrots and greens! 'A pot of mild porter, and take off the chill,' A damsel came smirking, in curls, cap, and frill. I started! she scream'd! 'twas my Dora! off flew Flank, buttock, greens, carrots, and peas-pudding too! 'Yes, I am your true love!' she curtsey'd, and said, 'At home I'ma widow, but here I'm a maid! My spouse kick'd the bucket last Sunday at Leeds,