ed mighty low and mane,
As they wouldn't lend him the loan of the ancient raal goold chain,
Nor the collar; as they said they thought (divil burn 'em),
If they'd done so, it was probable Dan never would return 'em.
But, good-bye, I must be off,--he's gone to take the chair!
So my love to Mrs. Punch, and no more about the Mayor."

* * * * *

PUNCH'S PAEAN TO THE PRINCELET.

Huzza! we've a little prince at last,
A roaring Royal boy;
And all day long the booming bells
Have rung their peals of joy.
And the little park-guns have blazed away,
And made a tremendous noise,
Whilst the air hath been fill'd since eleven o'clock
With the shouts of little boys;
And we have taken our little bell,
And rattled and laugh'd, and sang as well,
Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!
Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince will be daintily swathed,
And laid on a bed of down,
Whilst his cradle will stand 'neath a canopy
That is deck'd with a golden crown.
O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees
Her Princely boy at rest,
She will think of the helpless pauper babe
That lies at a milkless breast!
And then we will rattle our little bell.
And shout and laugh, and sing as well--
Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!
Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, we have not a doubt,
Has set up a little cry;
But a dozen sweet voices were there to soothe,
And sing him a lullaby.
We wonder much if a voice so small
Could reach our loved Monarch's ear;
If so, she said "God bless the poor!
Who cry and have no one near."
So then we will rattle our little bell,
And shout and laugh, and sing as well--
Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!
Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince (though he heard them not)
Hath been greeted with honied words,
And his cheeks have been fondled to win a smile
By the Privy Council Lords.
Will he trust the "charmer" in after years,
And deem he is more than man?
Or will he feel that he's but a speck
In creation's mighty plan?
Let us hope the best, and rattle our bell,
And shout and laugh, and sing as well--
Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!
Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, when be grows a boy,
Will be taught by men of lore,
From the "dusty tome" of the ancient sage,