me people say they no fighting e'er knew.

Had such been the case I will answer to say,
But those very brave valiants would soon run away;
Give them plumb pudding and plenty of beef,
And alone on the ground would be found the grand Chief.

Show him but a bottle of excellent wine,
And I'd warrant to say he'd the contest decline;
If talking would do he would frighten them all,
But I don't think he'd like to see powder or ball,

Come whistling near to his brain-pan or heart;
From such trying scenes he would gladly depart;
As a neighbour he's worthy the village esteem,
May he ne'er want a bottle nor I a good theme.

[Picture: Divider]

OLD JACK.--A SONG.

Tune.--"The Exciseman".

Not far from the village you'll see,
A snug little mansion appear,
As pleasant I think as can be,
To divert all its inmates from care.

It's embellish'd with pebbles and glass,
Which in buildings is rare to be seen;
To enliven the eye as you pass,
In the front is a very neat green.

One side there a clump of fir trees,
The other a garden with fruit,
With flowerets the ladies to please,
And a jasmine tree into boot.

A paddock adjoins the loved spot,
Another thing more you'll denote;
For work-men a very neat cot,
With a very good round little moat.

At the end of the cottage oft lay,
The black little scot on the straw;
On whom do old Jack in the day
At times lay his delicate paw.

I dare not almost for my life,
Tell Jack what I really do think;
That the scot he likes well as his wife,
Except it is strong beer to drink.

But old Jack he is getting quite old,
Was always a good natured man;
You could not allure him by gold,
To act in a dishonest plan.

Few dare the old man to oppose,
Be him ever so much in the wrong,
For many he takes by the nose, {20}
Be they ever so stout or so strong.

He envies not those in fine gigs,
His mind he keeps constant at ease,
Pass his time with the bullocks and pigs,
And his master most commonly please.

May the master and man live as long,
As comforts on earth can be found;
Then be join'd to the heavenly throng,
Where angelical pleasures abound.

ON THE DEATH
OF
_BEN GEE_.