The master he came to the door and said thus:
"What the deuce! has my cow turned into a
horse?"

"Oh no, canny master, your cow I have sold,
But was robbed on the road by a highwayman bold.
"My money I strewed about on the ground,
For to take it up the rogue lighted down,
And while he was popping it into his purse,
To make him amends I came off with his horse."
The master he laughed till his sides he had to hold.
He says,
"For a boy thou hast been very bold;
And as for the villain thou hast served him right,
Thou hast put upon him a clean Yorkshire bite."
He searched his bags, and quickly he told
Two hundred pounds in silver and gold,
And two brace of pistols; the lad said "I vow
I think, canny master, I've sold well your cow."
Then the boy, for his courage and valour so rare,
Three parts of the money he got for his share.
Now since the highwayman has lost all his store,
He may go a robbing until he gets more.

OLD ENGLISH ALE.

J. E. CARPENTER.]

[Tune-" Cheer up, Sam."

WHO finds good cheer in "Bitter Beer,"
Knows naught of British ale;
The mother-drink is that, I think,
Which is not thin and stale;
But "stingo" in October brewed
And kept the whole year round,
It is the tap to warm a chap
When the snow is on the ground.
Chorus: Beer, strong beer!

May malt and hops ne'er fail !
The only tap to warm a chap
Is strong old English ale !

I love it not, as some do, hot,

Nor with a toast done brown,
For if it's old, though e'er so cold,
It warms me when it's down :
A half-pint cup I first toss up
Then wet the other eye,

There is no drink like that, I think,
When Englishmen are dry.

Chorus.

Your bottled beer makes me feel queer,
So when for ale I ask,

I like to have it clear and bright
And fresh-drawn from the cask;

I like it with the cream atop,
And amber-bright, not flat;

Not engine-pulled to make it froth:
There is "
no pull" in that.

Chorus.

Some "dog's-nose " love, but I do not,
I think it is a fault

With gin and spice to spoil what's nice;
I like to taste the malt.

Hot "early-purl" may suit each churl
Whose liver's gone to pot,

But ale that's good my friend has stood,
Nor made me yet a sot.

Chorus.

I don't like "cooper "-" half-and-half"
Smells alway sour and thin,
And as to "stout" I always doubt

The stuff that they put in.

A body in the vat, they say,

Was found once, one fine morn.
Give me the tap in which they clap
The stout John Barleycorn!
Beer, strong beer!

May malt and hops ne'er fail!
The only tap to warm a chap
Is strong old English ale!

T. H. BAYLY.]

THE MAN THAT HAS BEEN YOUNGER.
[Music by J. BLEWITT,
'Tis he! 'tis he! how well he wears,
No change since last we met him,
I think Old Time, with all his cares,
Has managed to forget him;
His age, but no! be that forgot,
For dates we do not hunger,
He merely is (and who is not?)
The man that has been younger.

His hair has ne'er betrayed a fall,
It still is dark and curly;
Be wise, if you wear wigs at all,
Like him adopt one early.
He still retains the jaunty air,
His limbs look even stronger,
And yet he is, we're all aware,
The man that has been younger.

When first I met him in the park,
With joy unfeigned and real,
I paused five minutes to remark
The toilet's beau ideal.

That's five and thirty years ago,
Indeed it may be longer!

And he's unchanged, though well we know
A man that has been younger.

And still the glass is raised to scan

The fairest nymph that passes,
And still the figure of the man
Attracts all other glasses.
For female admiration, still,
His spirit seems to hunger,
And yet he is, do what he will,
The man that has been younger.

CLUBS.

ANONYMOUS.]

[Tune-" Bow, wow, wow."

If any man loves comfort, and has little cash to buy it, he

Should get into a crowded club-a most select society: While solitude and mutton cutlets serve infelix uxor, he

May have his club (like Hercules) and revel there in luxury.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

There's, first, the Athenæum club so wise, there's not a man of it

That has not sense enough for six (in fact, that is the plan of it);

The very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical,

And always place the knives and forks in order mathe

matical.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Then opposite the mental club you'll find the rcgi

mental one,

A meeting made of men of war, and yet a very gentle

one;

If uniform good living please your palate, here's excess of it,

Especially at private dinners, when they make a mess. of it!

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

E'en Isis has a house in town! and Cam abandons her city!

The Master now hangs out at the United University; In Common Room she gave a rout (a novel freak to hit upon)

Where Masters gave the Mistresses of Arts no chairs to sit upon.

Bow, wow, wow.

H

The Union club is quite superb-it's best apartment daily is

The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, cum. multis aliis:

At half-past six, the joint concern, for eighteen pence is given you

Half pints of port are sent in ketchup bottles to enliven you.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so

cozily

And dream they climb the highest Alps, or rove the plains of Moselai;

The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of it,

And now they are club-footed! and they sit and look at charts of it.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

The Orientals homeward bound, now seek their clubs much sallower,

And while they eat green fat they find their own fat growing yellower;

Their soup is made more savoury, till bile to shadows dwindles 'em,

And Messrs. Savoury and Moore with seidlitz draughts rekindles 'em.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Then there are clubs where persons parliamentary preponderate,

And clubs for men upon the turf-I wonder they ar'n't under it.

Clubs where the winning ways of sharper folks pervert the use of clubs,

Where knaves will make subscribers cry, "Egad, this is the deuce of clubs !"

Bow, wow, wow, &c.