With an old study filled full of learn'd old books ;

With an old reverend chaplain-you might know him by his looks;

With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks; And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half-a-dozen old cooks;

Like an old courtier, etc.

With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows,

With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows ;

And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose; And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; Like an old courtier, etc.

With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come,
To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum,
With good cheer enough to furnish every old room,
And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb ;
Like an old courtier, etc.

With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, That never hawk'd, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds,

And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds;

Like an old courtier, etc.

But to his eldest son his house and lands he assign'd, Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind :

But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined;

Like a young courtier, etc.

Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand;

Like a young courtier, etc.

With a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, Who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping

or care,

Who buys gaudy-colour'd fans to play with wanton air, And seven or eight different dressings of other women's

With a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good,. With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood,

And a new smooth shovel board, whereon no victuals ne'er stood;

Like a young courtier, etc.

With a new study, stuff'd full of pamphlets and plays; And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays; With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days;

And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and

toys;

Like a young courtier, etc.

With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on,
On a new journey to London straight we all must begone,
And leave none to keep house but our new porter John,
Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a
stone;

Like a young courtier, etc.

With a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is complete ; With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat;

With a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat; Like a young courtier, etc.

With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold,

For which sundry of his ancestors' old manners are sold;
And this is the course most of our new gallants hold,
Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so
cold

Among the young courtiers of the king,
Or the king's young courtiers.

THE VAGABOND S.

J. T. Trowbridge is a young American author of considerable repute. He is a contributor to the Atlantic Monthly, and one of the Editors of Our Young Folks, A Magazine for Boys and Girls. Published at Boston.

We are two travellers, Roger and I,

Roger's my dog.—Come here, you scamp; Jump for the gentlemen-mind your eye! Over the table-look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old :

Five years we've tramp'd through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank—and starved together.

We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.

No, thank ye, Sir—I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral

Aren't we, Roger ?-see him wink,—

Well, something hot, then-we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too—see him nod his head;
What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said;

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, Sir) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

'There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master!

No, Sir! see him wag his tail, and grin !
By George! it makes my old eyes water;
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter.

We'll have some music, if your willing,

And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, Sir)

Shall march a little.—Start, you villain!

Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer !

'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle !

(Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold your

Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle

To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

March! Halt! Now show how the Rebel shakes

When he stands up to hear his sentence.

Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honour a jolly new acquaintance.