When, at the last, the duke espied He had the earl secure, He plied him with a full pint glass, Which laid him on the floor. Who never spoke more words than these After he downward sunk, "My worthy friends, revenge my fall, Duke Wharton sees me drunk." Then, with a groan, duke Philip took The sick man by the joint, And said, "Earl Harold, 'stead of thee, Would I had drank the pint! "Alack! my very heart doth bleed, And doth within me sink For surely a more sober earl Did never swallow drink." With that the Sheriff, in a rage, To see the earl so smit, Vowed to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renown'd Sir Kit. Then stepp'd a gallant 'squire forth, Of visage thin and pale; Lloyd was his name, and of Gang-hall, Fast by the river Swale. Who said he would not have it told, Where Eden river ran, That unconcern'd he should sit by-- "So, Sheriff, I'm your man." Now when these tidings reach'd the room Where the duke lay in bed, How that the squire suddenly Upon the floor was laid-- "O, heavy tidings!" quoth the duke, "Cumberland witness be, I have not any toper more, Of such account as he." Like tidings to Earl Thanet came, Within as short a space, How that the under sheriff too, Was fallen from his place. "Now God be with him," said the earl, "Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my town, As drunken knights as he." Of all the number that was there, Sir Bains he scorn'd to yield, But, with a bumper in his hand, He staggered o'er the field. Thus did this dire contention end, And each man of the slain Was quickly carried off to bed, His senses to regain. God bless the king, the duchess fat, And keep the land in peace! And grant that drunkenness henceforth, 'Mong noblemen may cease. And likewise bless our royal prince, The nation's other hope, And give us grace for to defy The devil and the pope. * * * * * "_Cooke's unparalled Excellence!_" "In characters new, and in characters old, Cooke must be allow'd a matchless fine fellow; For, act what he will, we are constantly told, That in every part he is perfectly mellow!" * * * * * _Ambrose and his Dog._ BY W. HOLLOWAY. The clock had struck the midnight hour, And all the village slept, Save Julia, listening to the shower She, lonely, watch'd and wept. For, ere the sun peep'd o'er the hill, To town her Ambrose went; And sure some unexpected ill Must his return prevent! What, though the wood he pass'd beside, He needed nothing fear, For honest Dobbin was his guide And faithful Tray was there.