WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Cabbages! bright green cabbages! April's loveliest gifts, I guess. There is not a plant in the garden laid, Raised by the dung, dug by the spade, None by the gardener watered, I ween, So sweet as the cabbage, the cabbage green. I do remember how sweet a smell Came with the cabbage I loved so well, Served up with the beef that beautiful looked, The beef that the dark-eyed Ellen cooked. I have seen beef served with radish of horse, I have seen beef served with lettuce of Cos, But it is far nicer, far nicer, I guess, As bubble and squeak, beef and cabbages. And when the dinner-bell sounds for me— I care not how soon that time may be— Carrots shall never be served on my cloth; They are far too sweet for a boy of my broth; But let me have there a mighty mess Of smoking hot beef and cabbages.

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by— Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. 'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; I'm bail That Larry would swallow a pail. Oh, many a night, at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; He's gone to his rest, Where there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the grey water: 'Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter? 'Rouse thee, sir constable— Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!' Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her! Mother, beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy-chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping! And a pale countenance Looked through the casement. Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision, which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony— 'Lor'! it's Elizar!' Yes, 'twas Elizabeth— Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. 'Mother!' the loving one, Blushing, exclaimed, 'Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed. 'Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep.' Whether her pa and ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know: Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight. Moral. Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the Fiddlety! Maidens of England, take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key!

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill, And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot, As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot— In drinking, all round 'twas his joy to surpass, And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass. One morning in summer, while seated so snug, In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, Stern Death, on a sudden, to Tom did appear, And said, 'Honest Thomas, come take your last bier;' We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, From which let us drink to the health of my Nan.

I. The Rocks. I was a timid little antelope; My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. I saw the hunters scouring on the plain; I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat; I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. Zuleikah brought me water from the well; Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. I saw her face reflected in the well; Her camels since have marched into the rocks. I look to see her image in the well; I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. My mother is alone among the rocks.

III. The Caïque. Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caïque. Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak! Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath the melancholy sycamores, Hark! what a ravishing note the lovelorn Bulbul pours. Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright, As 'mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. Under the boughs I sat and listened still, I could not have my fill. 'How comes,' I said, 'such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.' 'Once I was dumb,' then did the Bird disclose, 'But looked upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved one grows, I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.' 'O bird of song, there's one in this caïque The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak.' Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, 'The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.'

Your Fanny was never false-hearted, And this she protests and she vows, From the triste moment when we parted On the staircase at Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette! We spent en province all December, And I ne'er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat! At night with that vile Lady Frances (Je faisais moi tapisserie) You danced every one of the dances, And never once thought of poor me! Mon pauvre petit cœur! what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set, And you gave, ô mon Dieu! to revive her, My beautiful vinegarette! Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you're forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! Reviens! break away from these Circes, Reviens for a nice little chat; And I've made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat!

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie. Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore, And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er, My faith then I plighted, my love I confessed, As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your Crest. When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your BANNER and broider your crest. The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mêlée. In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah! and that crest! But away with remembrance, no more will I pine That others usurped for a time what was mine! There's a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me; Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best Shall I blazon his BANNER and broider his CREST.