“Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away; I call’d for quarter, but, alas! It was not Quarter-day. “He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint:-- O Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point. “With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do-- But soon by charging over me, The _Coldstream_ brought me to. “With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I’m quite convinc’d the field of Mars Is not a field of clover! “O why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph? I might have been a butcher, and In business for myself! “O why did I the bounty take (And here he gasp’d for breath). My shillingsworth of ’list is nail’d Upon the door of death! “Without a coffin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not e’en a _shell_--my only chance Of being made a _Kernel_! “O Patty dear, our wedding bells Will never ring at Chester! Here I must lie in Honour’s bed, That isn’t worth a _tester_! “Farewell, my regimental mates, With whom I used to dress! My corps is changed, and I am now In quite another mess. “Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except when I am dead, you’ll go And see th’ illuminations.” [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT:--MR. HOBLER.] MILLER REDIVIVUS. “He is become already a very promising miller.”--_Bell’s Life in London._ I was walking very leisurely one evening down Cripplegate, when I overtook--who could help overtaking him?--a lame elderly gentleman, who, by the nature of his gait, appeared to represent the Ward. Like certain lots at auctions, he seemed always going, but never gone: it was that kind of march that, from its slowness, is emphatically called halting. Gout, in fact, had got him into a sad hobble, and, like terror, made his flesh creep. There was, notwithstanding, a lurking humorousness in his face, in spite of pace, that reminded you of Quick or Liston in _Old Rapid_. You saw that he was not slow, at least, at a quirk or quip,--not backward at repartee,--not behind-hand with his jest, in short, that he was a great wit though he could not jump. There was something, besides, in his physiognomy, as well as his dress and figure, that strongly indicated his locality. He was palpably a dweller, if not a native, of that clime distinguished equally by “the rage of the vulture and the love of the turtle,”--the good old City of London. But an accident soon confirmed my surmises.