d.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels boiled his blood
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent
The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell
He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,
And never any physic took
But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train
Whene'er he walked before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows
That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amaze, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much--so it appears
Most plainly--who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew
But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,--
What hero ever fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death
Deprived him of his life.

_Gilles Menage._

THE BELLS

Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E,
And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D.
Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N
And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.
The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling
For there I soon shall be.
Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.
No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-