There are some of my readers, I'll venture to say, Who have never seen Friburg, though some of them may, And others, 'tis likely may go there some day. Now, if ever you happen to travel that way, I do beg and pray, 'twill your pains well repay,-- That you'll take what the Cockney folks calls a "po-shay," (Though in Germany these things are more like a dray,) You may reach this same hill with a single relay,-- And do look how the rock, Through the whole of its block, Is split open, as though by some violent shock From an earthquake, or lightning, or horrid hard knock From the club-bearing fist of some jolly old cock Of a Germanised giant, Thor, Woden, or Lok: And see how it rears Its two monstrous great ears, For when once you're between them such each side appears; And list to the sound of the water one hears Drip, drip, from the fissures, like rain-drops or tears, --Odille's, I believe,--which have flowed all these years; --I think they account for them so;--but the rill I am sure is connected some way with Odille. MORAL. _Now then, for a moral, which always arrives At the end, like the honey bees take to their hives, And the more one observes it the better one thrives,-- We have all heard it said in the course of our lives, "Needs must when a certain old gentleman drives;" 'Tis the same with a lady,--if once she contrives To get hold of the ribands, how vainly one strives To escape from her lash, or to shake off her gyves! Then let's act like Count Otto, and while one survives, Succumb to _our_ She-Saints--videlicet wives! (_Aside._) That is if one has not a "good bunch of fives."-- (I can't think how that last line escaped from my quill, For I am sure it has nothing to do with Odille.) Now, young ladies, to you!-- Don't put on the shrew! And don't be surprised if your father looks blue When you're pert, and won't act as he wants you to do! Be sure that you never elope;--there are few,-- Believe me, you'll find what I say to be true,-- Who run restive, but find as they bake they must brew, And come off at last with "a hole in their shoe;" Since not even Clapham, that sanctified ville, Can produce enough saints to save _every_ Odille. FOOTNOTES: [12] Qui mores hominum multorum vidit et urbes. [13] The "Inglorious Memory" of this ould ancient transaction is still, we understand, kept up in Dublin by an annual proclamation at one of the city gates. The jewel, which has replaced the abstracted ornament, is said to have been presented by King William, and worn by Daniel O'Connell, Esq. * * * * * "Nycolas, cytezyn of ye cyte[14] of Pancraes, was borne of ryche and holye kynne, And hys fader was named Epiphanus, and his moder Johane."