Firing then, out of sheer alarm,

Hit the BEAU in the bridle-arm.

Button the first went none knows where,

But it carried away his solitaire;

Button the second a circuit made,

Glanced in under the shoulder-blade ;

Down from the saddle fell "BEAU BROCADE!"

Down from the saddle and never stirred !—

DOLLY grew white as a Windsor curd.

Slipped not less from the mare, and bound

Strips of her kirtle about his wound.

Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee,

Fettered his ankles-tenderly.

Jumped on his chestnut, BET the fleet,

(Called after BET of Portugal Street;)

Came like the wind to the old Inn-door ;-
Roused fat JOHN from a three-fold snore ;—

Vowed she'd 'peach if he misbehaved...

Briefly, the "Plymouth Fly" was saved!

Staines and Windsor were all on fire :

DOLLY was wed to a Yorkshire squire ;

Went to Town at the K-G's desire!

But whether His M-J-STY saw her or not,
HOGARTH jotted her down on the spot;

And something of DOLLY one still may trace

In the fresh contours of his "Milkmaid's" face.

GEORGE the Guard fled over the sea:

JOHN had a fit,—of perplexity;

Turned King's evidence, sad to state;

But JOHN was never immaculate.

As for the BEAU, he was duly tried,

When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide;

Served for a day-as the last of "sights,"

To the world of St. James's-Street and "White's;"

Went on his way to TYBURN Tree,

With a pomp befitting his high degree.

Every privilege rank confers :

Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchrè's;

Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar;

Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car--

("t" is omitted where HEROES are!)

Every one knows the speech he made;

Swore that he "rather admired the Jade !"—

Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat ;

Talked to the Chaplain after that ;

Turned to the Topsman undismayed. . .

This was the finish of "BEAU BROCADE !"

And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide

In the leaves of a dusty "LONDONER'S GUIDE;"

"Humbly Inscribed" (with curls and tails)

By the Author to FREDERICK, Prince of Wales:

"Publish'd by FRANCIS and OLIVER PINE;

Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign.

Seventeen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine.”

D

THE CHILD-MUSICIAN.

He had played for his lordship's levee,

He had played for her ladyship's whim,

Till the poor little head was heavy,

And the poor little brain would swim.

And the face grew peaked and eerie,

And the large eyes strange and bright,

And they said-too late-" He is weary! He shall rest for, at least, To-night!"