Oh, could I pick up a thought or a stanza, I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings Turning his rhymes into extravaganza, Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings! When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings! Oh! never mind, I will pick up a stanza, Laugh at his harp――and then pilfer its strings! What though you tell me each metrical puppy May make of such parodies _two pair a day_; Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:―― Ladder of fame! if man _can’t_ reach thy top, he Is right to sing just as high up as he may; I’d be a parody made by a puppy, Who makes of such parodies two pair a day. From _Sharpe’s Magazine_, 1829. ―――― SONG OF A RIFLEMAN. I’d be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Longest and last at the banquet or ball; Waltzing, Quadrilling, and flirting away, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. True to the opera, concert, or play, I’d never languish for wedlock’s dull thrall; I’ll be a Rifleman, gallant and gay, Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. * * * * * What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet Is forwarder seen when the battle’s begun? Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at, For he’ll safely return when the battle is done. Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at The stroke of a sabre, or shot of a gun, But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet, Perch’d in a tree till the battle is done. I’d be a Rifleman, I’d be a Rifleman, Flirting in peace-time when battle is done. From _The Bentley Ballads_. (London. Richard Bentley.) ―――― SONG OF THE COLLEGE BEDMAKER. I make the butter fly all in an hour; I put aside the preserves and cold meats, Telling my master his cream has turned sour, Hiding his pickles, purloining his sweets. I never languish for husband or dower; I never sigh to see gyps at my feet; I make the butter fly, all in an hour, Taking it home for my Saturday treat. From _Horace at Athens_, by G. O. TREVELYAN. ―――― I’D BE A ROTHSCHILD. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains, Having a heart drunk with visions of glory, When fifty per cent, on my table remains; I’d have no poet to sway his lute o’er me, A fig for the head that such nonsense contains. I’d be a Rothschild! immortal in story, As the fellows who live by their stanzas and brains.