Upon those steps a girl was scrubbing on her knees, The wind took off her bonnet which flutter’d in the breeze. She pray’d that it might fall by him, as in the air it rose, He grinn’d, but lest that she should see, he stood and wiped his nose. He turn’d and left the place where he had lived a week, Too youthful was the footman’s heart, tho’ whiskered was his cheek; Yet he had gain’d that cooky’s love, and banish’d other beaux, For sure the one she lov’d the most, was he who wiped his nose. From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. ―――― THE POLICEMAN’S TEAR. Against the rails he leant, To take a last fond look, At the kitchen he was petted in, And the open-handed cook. He heard the pretty housemaid read―― “The Guards will soon be here,” And the Peeler turned his bracelet round, And wiped away a tear. He thought on beef and pickles, On the lobster and the crab, And other dainties that the Force So well knows how to grab. He thought of Susan’s sixpences, Of Sarah’s supper-beer, And the Peeler turned his bracelet round And wiped away a tear. For the Guards, the Guards are coming―― A week, and we shall find His nose put not less out of joint Than our larder, when he’d dined, Cousins from the Crimea With his rights will interfere―― No wonder that the peeler sighed, And wiped away a tear. But there is vengeance in his head, So do not deem him weak―― There’s many a soldier will be watched And brought before the Beak. And of his rivals he will try To keep our kitchens clear, No sharper eye the steps can guard Than now lets fall the tear. SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1856. ―――― AWFUL POSITION OF MR. DUNUP AT BOULOGNE. Upon the pier he turned To take a mental look Of his credit and his creditors, Whom basely he forsook. He conjured up the sound So familiar to his ear, Of “please to settle this account;” And answer’d with a sneer. He reached his lodging door, A trembling took his knees―― He found in Paris there had been A most tremendous breeze. “_A bas les Anglais!_” roar’d Directly in his ear, Told him there was not time to pause―― He sought again the pier. He look’d on board the boat, Oh! do not deem him weak; For desperate was _Dunup’s_ game, The game of hide-and-seek. Go watch him at Boulogne, You’ll find him on the pier; He’d rather risk the bayonets there, Than brave the bailiffs here! _Punch_, 1848. ―――― THE SOLDIER’S FEAR.