“_Master Butterfly_, Mr. Townley’s famous short-horn bull, to which the first prize was awarded at the Chelmsford meeting, and who has been bought for the sum of 1,200 guineas, by an Australian gentleman, was shipped a few days ago for Melbourne by the _Copenhagen_.”――_Daily Paper._ I’d be a Butterfly, bought for a power Of gold from Australia, a short-horn complete, Shelter’d in homestead from sun and from shower, Fatten’d on oat-cake and mangold so sweet. Think of the glory obtained by my breeder―― Of the medal at Chelmsford so gloriously won―― Think of the credit borne off by my feeder, For the fat, layer by layer, my broad ribs laid upon! In a fast clipper they’ve taken my passage, And a cabin on deck they’ve constructed for me, Padded and mattressed to ease ocean’s tossage, Pitched and caulked close ’gainst the wash of the sea. While roots of the choicest, and hay of the sweetest, Are stored upon board for my use on the way, A best Lipscombe’s filter ensures the completest Regard for my water-supply, day by day. As for the passenger bipeds――poor devils, Herring-like packed in the dark hold below! Think of sea-sickness, and all of its evils―― Hatches all down――when it comes on to blow! My sweet hay, my good water, and cabin so cool, Compare with their berths, junk, and Thames from the tank! Surely all must perceive how a fine short-horn bull And an emigrant labourer differ in rank! _Punch._ August 23, 1856. ――――:o:―――― WE MET. We met――’twas in a crowd, And I thought he would shun me, He came――I could not breathe, For his eyes were upon me; He spoke――his words were cold, And his smile was unaltered; I knew how much he felt, For his deep-toned voice falter’d. I wore my bridal robe, And I rivall’d its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair, How I hated their brightness. He called me by my name―― As the bride of another―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish my mother! And once again we met,―― And a fair girl was near him, He smiled, and whispered low, As I once used to hear him; She leant upon his arm―― Once ’twas mine, and mine only I wept――for I deserved To feel wretched and lonely. And she will be his bride! At the altar he’ll give her The love that was too pure For a heartless deceiver. The world may think me gay, For my feelings I smother,―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this anguish, my mother! THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. ―――― PARODY ON THE ABOVE.