’Twas at the roaring feast for _Wrangler_ won, By Wiggin’s tipsy son, As high in lofty state, That classic Hero sate A music stool upon. The large eyed Lucy by his side Blush’d like a codling, Autumn’s pride;―― And spirits; fit to stem the tide Of Fortune’s current rough, Alike her frailties to deride, Or for her many dangers tried, Still ne’er to cry “Enough!” Throng’d round the Hero as he gave The toast in liquor brave, And by his ruling nod Rous’d the huzzas of gladness O’er the blue devils sadness, Waking the drowsy God, That slumber’d in the soul of each, To Wine, to Jollity, and Speech. * * * * * From _The Cambridge Odes_, by Peter Persius. Cambridge W. H. Smith. No date. ―――― THE KENNINGTON COMMON REVOLUTION. ’Twas on the Common of famed Kennington, Reynolds (old Reynolds’ son), Aloft in mimic state, Upon a waggon sate―― The driving box his throne. The idle riff-raff stood around, Some of their brows――for recent fractures――bound (So theft and mischief should be crowned). The Chartist, Williams, by his side, With envy his position eyed, As if for chairmanship he sighed. Precious, precious pair! None but the brave, None but the brave Deserve the chair! Young Reynolds, placed on high, Produces half a quire Of correspondence, which, without desire, He reads, in notes that reach the sky, And shouts of “Hear!” inspire. Note one――bid Sir George Grey, Before a certain day, Leave Ministerial sway, And send the reins of power, straight from his hand, To Mister Reynolds, somewhere in the Strand; When he, of the said reins possessed, Would guide the State himself, in style the very best. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; “A plucky chap this here,!” they shout around, And dabs of mud against the van rebound. With lengthened ears Young Reynolds hears, And thinks, with joy, “Yes I’m the boy That means to shake the spheres.!” Praise of the French he next in glowing accents sung―― French Freedom――very fair, but very young. But a poor baker’s cart there comes: With their fingers and their thumbs, The mob to their disgrace, (Blush every honest face!) Would fain have stole the bread――the crusts, the crumbs! Freedom, very, very, young, Surely never did ordain Making baker’s carts a treasure, Robbing their contents at pleasure―― Pleasure to the owners’ pain.