He turn’d upon his heel, To take an angry look Of the baggage-waggon and the baggage As they came o’er the brook; He tried to lose the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier leant upon his sword His wife was in the rear. She sat upon the baggage. A child was on her knees: She looked just such a sort of one As loved to have a breeze; She breathed a threat for him, A threat he could not hear, Or else he would have soundly drubb’d His partner in the rear. He turned and cursed the spot, Oh! do not deem him weak; Bursting with fury was his heart, Tho’ pallid was his cheek. Go watch the foremost rank In danger’s dark career, And mark the man most des’prate there His wife is in the rear. From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. ―――― STANZAS. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.) The Broadwood is opened, its tapers are lit, And my hostess implores me to play; She would hear me accompany lines full of wit, In my truly musicianlike way. But my lyrics were made for the careless and free, When my heart and my spirits were light: Seek the lays of the lively from others, not _me_, Let my song be a sad one to-night. Leave, leave me, fair lady, to cherish my gloom In a corner far far from the throng; Let me carry some chair to the end of the room And retreat from the dance and the song, Let me hide my depression and veil my despair From the crowd of the brilliant and bright; Or in case you _insist_ upon hearing an air, Let my song be a sad one to-night. I could give you “The Last Rose of Summer,” perhaps, In a plaintive and exquisite style: But I know I should simply and feebly collapse In my efforts to conjure a smile. The low-comedy manner, the sickly grimace, Would be rather too painful a sight: With a load on my bosom, a cloud on my face, Let my song be a sad one to-night. Not a particle, thank you. No fluids can cheer Such a state of dejection as mine. It resists the seductive advances of beer, And refuses the solace of wine. No, I cannot be comic, fair lady. I trust You regard my refusal aright. Well, of course, if you _must_ have a ballad, you _must_, Let my song be a sad one to-night. _Fun._ November 18, 1871. ―――― MORE STANZAS. (By Haynes Bayly the Second.)