D’un gros financier, la coquette flaire Le beau bijou d’or de diamants orné. Ce grigou, d’un air renfrogné, Lui dit: Malgré ton joli nez―― J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière, J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas. Tel qui veut nier l’esprit de Voltaire, Est pour le sentir trop enchifrené. Cet esprit est trop raffiné, Et lui passe devant le nez. Voltaire a l’esprit dans sa tabatière, Et du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas. Voilà huit couplets, cela ne fait guère, Pour un tel sujet bien assaisonné; Mais j’ai peur qu’un priseur mal né, Me chante, en me riant au nez: J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas. GABRIEL CHARLES DE LATTEIGNANT (1697-1779.) [Illustration] TO MY NOSE. Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O nose! I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows; I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows? ALFRED CROWQUILL. _The Comic Offering._ 1834. PADDY DUNBAR. At the request of numerous subscribers the following very humorous parody of Sir Walter Scott’s “Young Lochinvar” is here given, although somewhat out of its proper order. The parody, which is a favourite piece with reciters, has been kindly sent by Mr. C. H. Stephenson, of Southport. PADDY DUNBAR. Och, Paddy Dunbar is come out of the West, In all broad St. Giles his brogue was the best, And, save his shillelah, he weapon had none, He walked by himself, when he walked all alone; So daring in love, and so plucky in war, Och, a broth of a boy now, was Paddy Dunbar. He carried up bricks, and he carried up stone, And he carried up mortar, when bricks there was none; But ere he had rattled at Mulrooney’s gate, The bride had consinted, poor Paddy came late, And a fresh-water sailor, as niver smelt tar, Was to wed the swate Norah of Paddy Dunbar. So bowldly he marched into Mulrooney’s stall, ’Mongst mothers, and brothers, and cousins, and all; Then spake ould Mulrooney, his fist in his hand While the spalpeen of a bridegroom quite spacheless did stand, “Och, come ye in pace here; or come ye in war, Or to jig at our wedding, ye blaygard Dunbar?” “When I first coorted Norah, ye thought me too bould, Love warms us like toddy, but sooner grows cold; And now I am come, without malice or spleen, To jig at your wedding, and smoke my dhudeen; There are girls in St. Giles more pretty by far, Would gladly be married to Paddy Dunbar.”