His hall, so old, was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood against old foes; ’Twas there “his worship” held his state, In doublet and trunk hose; And quaff’d his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose. Like a fine, &c. When Winter’s cold brought frost and snow, He open’d house to all; And though three score and ten his years, He fleetly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer, E’er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne’er forgot the small. Like a fine, &c. But time, tho’ sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly by; And Autumn’s falling leaves proclaim’d The old man――he must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life’s latest sigh; And mournful stillness reign’d around, And tears bedewed each eye. For this good, &c. Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade, Of Theatres and Fancy Balls, “At Home,” and Masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, &c. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. I’ll sing you a prime new song, That was made by a young chap’s pate, Of a fine young English gentleman, Who’d come to an estate; Who kept his hunters and his hounds At a d――――d expensive rate. With servants gay, to drive away The poor folks from his gate; Like a fine young English gentleman, Born in the modern times. His study it was strew’d around With what?――Lord only knows! Foils, boxing-gloves, and pistols, Which he us’d with friends and foes: ’Twas there “the squire” took his wine And cigar whene’er he chose; Perusing the _Court Journal_, Or Blackwood’s tedious prose. Like a fine, &c. He was, when merry winter came, The gayest of them all; At five-and-twenty he was seen At ev’ry fancy ball. At each theatre――masquerade―― This gentleman would call; And while he feasted with the great, He quite forgot the small. Like a fine, &c.