Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound! The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye! But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds. ――――:o:―――― PUNCH’S SERENADE. Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?―― He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne, And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home. Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?―― He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well; But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell. In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?―― His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid; And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad. Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!―― Dog _Toby_ would weep over him, and _Punch_ himself would cry: But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die. _Punch_, October 1846. Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.――Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. _Life of Lord Brougham._ ―――― SONG OF THE SLIGHTED SUITOR. Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone? He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on, And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own. What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch? Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;―― And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such. In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found? I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;―― And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound. What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make? None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake, And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take. _Punch_, 1848. ―――― THE GREAT KILT REFORM. Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone? Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on! What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear? Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare; And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air!