"Do you know he has a mighty purty method ov his own, bud thin, though id might do wid Oliver, it was all nonsense wid me, so afore you could say Jack Lattin, I caught him wid my left hand undher the ear, an' tumbled him up on his throne. 'There now,' says I, 'Majesty, I tould ye how id would be, but you'd never stop until you got yourself hurt.'--'Give us your fist, Dan,' says he, 'I'm not a bit the worse of the fall; you're a good man, an' I'm not able for you.'--'That's no disgrace,' says I, 'for it's few that is; but iv I had you in thrainin' for six months, I'd make another man ov ye;' an' wid that we fell a dhrinkin' again, ever till we didn't lave a dhrop in the bottle; an' then I thought it was time to go, so up I got.--'Dan,' says he, 'before you lave me I'll make you a knight, to show I have no spite again ye for the fall.'--'Oh,' says I, 'for the matter ov that, I'm sure ye're too honourable a gintleman to hould spite for what was done in fair play, an' you know your reverence wouldn't be easy until you had a thrial ov me.'--'Say no more about id, Dan,' says he, laughin', 'bud kneel down upon your bended knees.' So down I kneeled.--'Now,' says he, 'ye wint down on your marrow bones plain Dan, but I give ye lave to get up Sir Dan Dann'ly, Esquire.'--'Thank your honour,' says I, 'an' God mark you to grace wherever you go.' So wid that we shook hands, an' away I wint. Talk of your kings and prences, the Prence Ragin' is the finest Prence ever I dhrunk wid." * * * * * I'D BE A PARODY. BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. I'd be a Parody, made by a ninny On some little song with a popular tune, Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. I'd never sigh for the sense of a Pliny, (Who cares for sense at St. James's in June?) I'd be a Parody, made by a ninny, And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. Oh! could I pick tip a thought or a stanza, I'd take a flight on another bard's wings, Turning his rhymes into extravaganza, Laugh at his harp--and then pilfer its strings! When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings! Oh, never mind, I will pick up a stanza, Laugh at his harp--and then pilfer its strings! What though you tell me each metrical puppy Might make of such parodies _two pair a day_; Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:-- Ladder of fame! if man _can't_ reach thy top, he Is right to sing just as high up as he may; I'd be a Parody, made by a puppy, Who makes of such parodies two pair a day! _Sharpe's Magazine_. * * * * * THE ANECDOTE GALLERY. * * * * * VISIT TO FERNEY IN 1829. _Sharpe's London Magazine_, (No, 3.),