After the dance had concluded, Terence led his glowing partner to a cool quiet corner, where leaving her, he flew to the side table, and in less time than he would take to bring down a snipe, he was again beside her with a large mugful of hot negus, into which he had put, by way of stiffener, a copious dash of mountain dew. “How do you like it, my darling?” asked Terence, after Miss Biddy had read the maker’s name in the bottom of the mug. “Too strong, I’m afraid,” replied the heiress. “Strong! Wake as tay, upon my honour! Miss Biddy,” cried Mr. Duffy. (The result of Terence Duffy’s courtship will be given in the next chapter). SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. No. IV. O Dinna paint her charms to me, I ken that she is fair; I ken her lips might tempt the bee— Her een with stars compare, Such transient gifts I ne’er did prize, My heart they couldna win; I dinna scorn my Jeannie’s eyes— But has she ony tin? The fairest cheek, alas! may fade Beneath the touch of years; The een where light and gladness play’d May soon graw dim wi’ tears. I would love’s fires should, to the last, Still burn as they begin; And beauty’s reign too soon is past, So—has she ony tin? LADY MORGAN’S LITTLE ONE. Her ladyship, at her last conversazione, propounded to PUNCH the following classical poser:—“How would you translate the Latin words, puella, defectus, puteus, dies, into four English interjections?” Our wooden Roscius hammered his pate for full five minutes, and then exclaimed—“A-lass! a-lack! a-well a-day!” Her ladyship protested that the answer would have done honour to the professor of languages at the London University. [pg 50] A Lion and a Unicorn sit with a tankard by a table with legs marked 'Queen,' 'Commons' and 'Lords.' THE ROYAL LION AND UNICORN. A DIALOGUE. “GROUND ARMS!”—Birdcage Walk. LION.—So! how do you feel now? UNICORN.—Considerably relieved. Though you can’t imagine the stiffness of my neck and legs. Let me see, how long is it since we relieved the griffins? LION.—An odd century or two, but never mind that. For the first time, we have laid down our charge—have got out of our state attitudes, and may sit over our pot and pipe at ease. UNICORN.—What a fate is ours! Here have we, in our time, been compelled to give the patronage of our countenance to all sorts of rascality—have been forced to support robbery, swindling, extortion—but it won’t do to think of—give me the pot. Oh! dear, it had suited better with my conscience, had I been doomed to draw a sand-cart! LION.—Come, come, no unseemly affectation. You, at the best, are only a fiction—a quadruped lie. UNICORN.—I know naturalists dispute my existence, but if, as you unkindly say, I am only a fiction, why should I have been selected as a supporter of the royal arms? LION.—Why, you fool, for that very reason. Have you been where you are for so many years, and yet don’t know that often, in state matters, the greater the lie the greater the support?