“The Dean he to the altar went, and wi’ a solemn look, He cast his eyes to heaven, then read a curious-printed book: In Jenny’s heart the blood upwelled with bitter anguish full; Sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool! _With a row-dow――at them now!――firmly grasp the stool!_ “As when a mountain cat springs upon a rabbit small, So Jenny on the Dean springs, with gush of holy gall; _Wilt thou say the mass at my lug thou Popish puling fool?_ No! no! she said, and at his head she flung the four-legged stool. With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny fling the stool! “A bump, a thump! a smash, a crash! now gentle folks beware! Stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling through the air, With, Well done, Jenny! bravo, Jenny! that’s the proper tool! When the Diel will out, and show his snout, just meet him with a stool. _With a row-dow――at them now!――there’s nothing like a stool!_ “The Council and the Judges were smitten with strange fear, The ladies and the Bailies their seats did deftly clear, The Bishop and the Dean went, in sorrow and in dool, And all the Popish flummery fled, when Jenny showed the stool! _With a row-dow――at them now!――Jenny show the stool!_ “And thus a mighty deed was done by Jenny’s valiant hand, Black Prelacy and Popery she drave from Scottish land; King Charles he was a shuffling knave, priest Laud a pedant-fool, But Jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool! _With a row-dow――yes, I trow!――she conquered by the stool!_” By Professor JOHN STUART BLACKIE. _The Inverness Courier._ January 8, 1885. ―――― OUR BRITISH PREMIER. Some talk of Bright and Cobden, And some of Palmerston, Of Chamberlain and Goschen, And some of Hartington. But of all old England’s heroes, There’s none that can compare To the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! Then up! for now he bids us To rout the renegades. Our Hawarden star is quenchless By “Harden Star-Grenades!” Up, up! with shouts and cheering We’ll stun the traitor’s ear, For the Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! So, fill, fill up a bumper, His health let none refuse; Who wears the high, high collar, Who wears the plaided trews. Long may he live――our jewel, Our _stone_ without a peer; The Grand Old Man, the Grand Old Man, Our British Premier! AMBULATOR. _Truth._ July 15, 1886. ――――:o:―――― LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL.