THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, Who had an old estate; And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate, With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate— Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords and good old bucklers That had stood against old foes; 'Twas there "his worship" sat in state, In doublet and trunk hose, And quaff'd his cup of good old sack To warm his good old nose— Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He open'd his house to all; And though three-score and ten his years, He featly led the ball. Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small— Like a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, And years roll swiftly by; And autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd The old man—he must die! He laid him down quite tranquilly, Gave up his latest sigh; And mournful stillness reign'd around, And tears bedew'd each eye— For this good old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

Now, surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade! And much more economical, For all his bills were paid, Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade— Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

Anon.