'Tisn't that--the mere valley and worth of the coat-- 'Tis the honour the present is meant to denote, The respect I be held in, the height of esteem, Which is far above all I could possible dream. Why, what dost thee think, man? these things is no less Than a passpoort for wearers, a privileged dress, I puts on this quoat on my back--that was all-- And they lets me walk in to the grand County Ball. There was MEASTER DISRAELI, the friend o' the land, He comes and he catches me hold by the hand, "Come along," a sez, "JOHN;" up the room then we stumps, Which occasioned some noise, as I didn't wear pumps. To a Lord and a Lady of rank and degree, 'Mongst a whole kit of other fine folks he led me, And he says to 'em, s'ee, "I the honour ha' got O 'troducin' my friend to yer, MEASTER JOHN TROTT. "He's a noble, is JOHN, though he isn't a Peer,-- I wun't say as how he's the noblest that's here; But an honest man JOHN is, and all on you know, In course, what the poet calls him as is so. "Look at this horny palm! how became it like that, So that on it he uses to slice bacon fat? Why by thirty years' toil--and for whom, d'ye suppose? For a wife and five children?--not only for those-- "My lady, to earn his own bread warn't enow, He yarned your meat as well, by the damp of his brow; And your silks, and your satins, and jewels besides, And the coaches you keeps, and the hosses you rides. "Arter that, I be certain that you won't deny MEASTER TROTT your fair hand for a dance by and by." "Such a trifle," she said, "I of course can't withhold." "But for dancin'" I sez, "I'm afeard I'm too old." "Oh! we won't 'tempt the Poker, nor Valsa dew Tong, And I'm sure we shall get very nicely along," Said my lady; when straightways the music did play, And to "_Pop goes the Weasel_" we capered away. Her ladyship flew, amost, over the ground, Which I could do nothin' but hammer and pound; But nobody laughed, for in course they thought how Arkard they'd look suppose they was tryin' to plough. When the dancin' was done unto supper we went, And I feasted away to my full heart's content, On cake, chicken, lobster, sweets, aught I could find, The fust time I ever ate all I'd a mind. 'Tis the bein' acknowledged, you see, like that 'ere, Is what makes me feel proudish this clothin' to wear, I should say "Dash the buttons!" if that warn't the case, And consider the quoat but a badge o' disgrace. * * * * * IRON BARS OF MUSIC. We have often wished that we could suggest anything that would afford some scope for the unemployed ability of the artists of our almost extinct English Opera. Here, in an advertisement out of the _Times_, appears to be something like an opening for one of them--if the foreign predilections of our superior classes have not starved them all:--