The salutary effect that this mixing of the English with the Egyptian will have upon our Poetry and Romance, "can be much better imagined than described,"—as George Robins used to say in every one of his advertisements. Instead of our trumpery "Wilt thou love me then as now?" and "Yes, dearest, then I'll love thee more!" we shall have good wholesome emotion, and "no nonsense," in the shape of the following little Anglo-Arabian snatch: "For thirty days I could not eat—neither have I slept for the fleas and excessive weeping. "Her face is like the full moon, her hair like capsicums, and her nose is the finest of Grecians. "She moveth like the willow branch, and she speaketh Coptic with a pure Pyramidical accent. "Her breath is like ambergris; she hath rubies and pearls, and jacinths, and heaps of red gold in the consols." This is sterling affection if you like. There are few Englishmen who could keep a flame burning for thirty days. When all these things are worked out, it will be time to begin agitating for that great moral change, the introduction of Polygamy into England. If true-born Britons are to be forced still to continue monogamists, what, we would ask, is to become of the surplus lady population? Either they must be induced to emigrate in a body to the Grand Sultan, or an act must be passed to make bigamy according to law. Something _must_ be done for as matters are at present our wives _are just one too many for us_. "THE GOOD OLD TIMES." The "good old times" are past, my boys, The "good old times" are past, And, if it's true what Hist'ry says, It's lucky we live in other days Than the "good times" past; Then the Noble's might was the only right, But the people have grown stronger: The iron collar's off their necks— Thank God they're dogs no longer! The "good old times" are past, my boys, The "good old times" are past, When the skies were bloody with martyr fires, And daughters lighted their fathers' pyres, In the "good times" past. Then, mothers at the stake gave birth; And, to make their sufferings stronger, Had their new-born babe flung in the flames— Thank God, we burn no longer! The "good old times" are past, my boys, The "good old times" are past, When we kill'd—not kept—our aged poor,— Burnt them as witches by the score, In the "good times" past. Then a child of five was burnt alive, For making the tempest stronger; And a dog they tried, and a corpse beside— Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer!