O Quintilius! wretched general, Knowest thou not that such our men are all? In a swamp he fell--how shocking! Lost two boots, a left-hand stocking, And, besides, was smothered. Then, with his temper growing wusser, Said to Centurion Titiusser, “Pull your sword out--never mind, And bore me through with it behind, Since the game is busted.” Scaevolo, of law a student, Fine young fellow--but imprudent As a youth of tender years, Served among the volunteers-- He was also captured. E’en his hoped-for death was baffled, For ere they got him to the scaffold He was stabbed quite unaware, And nailed fast _en derrière_ To his Corpus Juris. When this forest fight was over, Herman rubbed his hands in clover; And to do the thing up right, The Cheruscian did invite To a first-rate breakfast. But in Rome the wretched varmints Went to purchase mourning garments; Just as they had tapped a puncheon, And Augustus sat at luncheon, Came the mournful story. And the tidings so provoked him, That a peacock leg half choked him, And he cried--beyond control-- “Varus, Varus! d--n your soul! Redde legiones!” His German slave, Hans Schmidt be-christened, Who in the corner stood and listened, Remarked, “Der Teufel take me wenn He efer kits dose droops acain, For teat men ish not lifin.” Now, in honour of the story, A monument they’ll raise for glory. As for pedestal--they’ve done it; But who’ll pay for a statue on it Heaven alone can tell us. _J. V. Scheffel._ [Illustration: “OLD CLO’,--TAKE THEM, THEY ARE THINE!”] THE LAST PAIR OF BREECHES. _Air_--“’Tis the last Rose of Summer.” ’Tis my la-a-st pair of bre-e-eches Le-e-ft sa-a-dly a-lone; Ah--and she too with her riches, With another hence has gone. Oh, they seemed in one piece knitted, Such a pair is seldom matched; Winter buckskin, how they fitted! Large plaid pattern, never patched! Strutting proudly as a turkey, With those breeks I first sailed in; In my pocket to the door-key Rang such lots of lovely tin. Ah, we fall as we have risen-- Soon no specie showed its face; And the Heidelberg town-prison Is a dark and silent place. Soon I pawned all things worth pawning,-- Dress-coat, frock, and mantle light. You too, now, ere morrow’s dawning, My last trousers, good--good-night! Day of trial, with what sorrow Do I feel thy pain at last; Nothing earthly bides the morrow, And the pledge-laws travel fast. All must go, though strictly hoarded, Oh, last trousers, last of mine! Elkan Levi, gloomy, sordid, Old clo’,--take them, they are thine!