Bereft of speech and breathing, Awhile was “Twenty-three,” (For, thanks to kitchen maidens fair, Who bought his love with viands rare, Of habit full was he); And Johnson, by his valour Freed from judicial grab, In safety gain’d the neighb’ring stand, And with the knocker in his hand, Plung’d headlong in a cab! Never, I ween, did driver With such a style of horse, Urge o’er the stones at such a rate, To save a patron from the hate And fury of the Force. But his sympathies went greatly With the large heart within, Who half-a-crown beyond his fare Had promis’d――and some gin. And now they near his chambers, Where, waiting his return, Stand his false-hearted comrades Joy’d his escape to learn; Whom, for their craven conduct, As from the cab he leaps, The high-soul’d Johnson scruples not To stigmatize as “sweeps.” And now they press around him, And now they soap him down; And with emollient sawder His just reproaches drown; Now on the back they slap him, Thumbs in his ribs they stick, And now they dub him “Trojan,” And now proclaim him “Brick.” They gave him songs and speeches, They drank his health with glee, And (heedless of the lodgers) It was done with three times three. And they took the rifled knocker, And hung it up on high, And there it stands in Johnson’s rooms, To witness if I lie. And in the nights of winter, When things are rather slow, And men (the gardens being shut) Uncertain where to go; To Johnson’s humble chambers, In little knots drop in, To smoke his soothing birdseye, And quaff his cheering gin! When the bottled stout is opened, And the meerschaum pipe is lit, And the guests on trunks and tables (Chairs at a premium) sit, When flags the conversation, Revert they to the “go,” How Johnson tore the knocker down Of Watkins of Soho. ―――― SIBTHORPIUS. _A Lay of Modern London, made in the year_ 1848. BY T. BLABBINGTON MACSQUALLY I. O’Connor of York Castle By the Six Points he swore, That the great English rabble Should suffer wrong no more. By the Six Points he swore it, And named a trysting day, And made his underlings go forth, In third-class trains, from south to north, To summon his array. II. The pickpockets and Chartists Come pouring in amain, From many a dirty market-place, From many a half-choked drain; From many a lonely alley, Where, hid from Peeler’s eyen, In a magmen’s nest――the neighbourhood’s pest―― Grovel the human swine. III. There be some scores of delegates, The noisiest of the land, Who alway by O’Connor, In John Street’s building stand; With dirty hands the delegates Have turned the papers o’er―― The leaders bright, in black and white, Of journalistic lore.