When gracious Anne ascends the throne. The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory: Occasional conformists base, I damn'd their moderation, And thought the church in danger was By such prevarication, And this is law, &c. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men look'd big, sir, I turn'd a cat-in-pan once more, And then became a Whig, sir: And so preferment I procured By our new faith's defender, And always every day abjured The Pope and the pretender. And this is law, &c. The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear While they can keep possession: For by my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, And George my lawful king shall be Until the time shall alter. And this is law, &c. * * * * * ANOTHER OLD SONG. ORIGIN OF THE SONG "FOUR AND TWENTY FIDDLERS ALL ON A ROW." The fiddle was not allowed to be a concert instrument till the reign of Charles the Second, who, in imitation of Louis the Fourteenth, established a band of twenty-four violins, alias fiddles, which gave birth to Tom Durfey's song of "_Four and Twenty Fiddlers all on a Row_," &c.: a humorous production, in which there is a mockery of every instrument, and almost every trade, and which used to be performed between the acts, or between the play and farce, by some man of humour at benefits. The author of the Guardian, in No. 67, gives an account of Tom Durfey, with a view to recommend him to the public notice for a benefit play, and says, that he remembered King Charles the Second leaning on Tom Durfey's shoulder more than once, and humming over a song with him. _Roi des Violons_, or King of the Fiddlers, was anciently a title in France. It became defunct, in 1685, owing to anarchy--thus _harmony and discord cannot agree_. P.T.W. * * * * * ROSEDALE ABBEY. (_For the Mirror_.) "A churchyard!--'tis a homely word, yet full Of feeling; and a sound that o'er the heart Might shed religion." R. MONTGOMERY. Ruins! so dark and lone, The pride of other years, On which the stars have shone, To light the mourners' tears; The ivy clings to ye, And softly hums the bee Where violets blue are blooming, The liquid dews perfuming, Beneath each withered tree. Tombs! o'er your nameless stone What gentle hearts have wept, And there, at midnight lone, Their silent vigils kept; There Beauty laid her wreath, And Love seem'd "strong as death," Around the pale shrines sighing, While plaintive winds were dying With music in their breath.