An exile from place levees dazzle in vain. Oh! give me my Downing Street house once again, The subs slaving daily that came at my call, Give me them, with a sinecure, dearer than all. Place! place! sweet, sweet, place. There’s nothing like place. No! there’s nothing like place. _Figaro in London._ Sept. 22. 1832. ―――― BEIGNET DE POMME. ’Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like Beignet de Pomme. A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme! Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores――if you’ll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you’ll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there’s none like the Beignet de Pomme ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE UNFINISHED HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. When Lord Brougham said there was no more dependence to be placed on BARRY’S promises than on a broken reed, he was not perhaps aware that it was really REID, and not BARRY, that acted as a barrier to the completion of the Houses of Parliament. Since it has been discovered that REID is the culprit, the following melody has been expressly written for LORD BROUGHAM, who has sung it twice at the Beef Steak Club, with considerable gusto. “’Mid Westminster’s palace, while REID still shall roam The Lords will ne’er taste of the blessings of home; If BARRY e’er tries the new house to prepare, His efforts by REID are all blown into air. REID, REID, DOCTOR REID! Of all great mistakes, there is not one like REID. “While exil’d from home, all my speeches seem vain; Oh give me my old House of Commons again. The ‘cheers’ and the ‘hears,’ once my own I could call Give me them, or that sack of wool, dearer than all, REID, REID,” &c. _Punch._ April 14, 1846. ―――― PARODY FOR PUSEYITES.