But to a man of John Smith’s mind The love of power had charms; So when his captain ordered him, John Smith order’d his arms. An active, bustling blade was he, At drill and eke at mess, Who never thought to stand at ease When Captains called out “dress,” Attentive always to the word, It never was his wont To turn his eyes or right or left―― When Captains cried “eyes front!” Though he was ever thought correct, Once, during an assault, He ne’er advanced a single foot―― ’Cause he was told to halt. But still he was not coward called, Why,――we can soon detect; His foes all fell dead at his feet,―― When his shots took effect. But tired of knapsack and of gun And firing in platoons, The infantry he quitted when―― He entered the dragoons. His saddle now became his home, His horse and he seemed one; And he was ne’er known to dismount,―― Unless he first got on. How brave and bold a man he was, From one small fact is clear; Whole regiments fled before him when,―― He followed in their rear. He was a steady soldier then. And sober too, of course, And ne’er into a tap-room went,―― Mounted upon his horse. In fact his conduct was so good, His Captains all confess He never got into a scrape,―― Though always in a mess. Though as to what fights he’d been in Men differed,――none denied That the last battle he e’er fought Was that in which he died. The soldiers there who saw him fall, Exclaimed, as with one breath, “Unless his wound’s a mortal one, It will not cause his death.” Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s Nought but the truth did tell; But _this_ none ever stopped to read, Who had not learn’d to spell. “Stop, passenger, and weep;――one tear To him you can’t refuse, Who stood――high in his regiment, And five feet in his shoes.” _The Comic Magazine_, 1834. ―――― A HISTORY. There was a man, so legends say, And he――how strange to tell!―― Was born upon the very day, Whereon his birthday fell. He was a baby first. And then He was his parents’ joy; But was a man soon after, when He ceased to be a boy. And when he got to middle life, To marry was his whim; The self-same day he took a wife, Some woman wedded him. None saw him to the other side Of Styx by Charon ferried; But ’tis conjectured that he died Because he has been buried. TOM HOOD, the younger. _The Century Magazine_ for November, 1883, contained an _Elegy on Mrs. Grimes_, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize. ――――:o:――――