Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And waking tapers faintly peep High from my lady’s bower; Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken, Shrink on their murky way, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, It is our op’ning day. Uprouse ye, then, &c. Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof, nor latched door, Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, And use it as you may. Uprouse ye, then, &c. JOANNA BAILLIE. ―――― A SEASONABLE GLEE. (_To be sung in bed on any Frosty day._) With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone, My boot is on the tree;[28] The weather out of doors this morn (_With a shiver._) Is cold as charity. (_With several shivers._) Is co-o-o-o-old as charity. The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen- -der with its steel array-ay-ay, -der-with its steel array, -der with it’s steel array. (_Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants._) Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day; Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men, I’ll not get up to-day. Beneath the blankets full three deep All snuggled up I cower, All snuggled up I cower, Above the counter-pane I peep To see what is the hour, To see what is the hour. My watch I find says half-past ten, Then dow-ow-own myself I lay, Then down myself I lay, Then down myself I lay. (_To the Footman._) Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day; Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men, I don’t get up to-day. Some friends drop in to ask me “how I am” (pray shut the door); _Drop_ in! Their frost is melting now, And deluging the floor, And de-lu-ging the floor! “Get up!” No! no! I trust them when They say ’tis a_n ice_ day, They say ’tis an ice day. They say ’tis an ice day. I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may; I’ll house me then, my merry merry men, Abuse me as you may! (_Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time._) _Punch._ January 16, 1864. There was a short political parody, of the same song, in _Punch_ for August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest. ―――― CHANT OF SMALL CRITICS. _In the Royal Academy._