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! THE COURT, j,♦

' JPOUTICAXi GOSSIP. ---

- THE ARTS, LITEEATUBB, fte.…

WILLS AND BEQUESTS.

ANOTHER TRAGEDY IN PARIS.

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OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. .,

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OUR MISCELLANY. -+--

EXTRACTS FROM " PUNCH s" &…

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EXTRACTS FROM PUNCH s" & The Laureate Loquitur,—3866. How shall we rise and welcome him ? With blaze of trumpet and slap-balg, Or get celestial shout from Ohang, Or howl from lungs of Anakim P Or shall we tune a harp like his. Who sang of philosophic lore; Repeating proverbs o'er and o'@r, And Baying this is true, and this A fine-drawn thought ? Or, say, shall or ? Who sang of love and classic criiaej In soft alliterative rhyme, Come from the hills of Calydon ? And yet no Psean one could raise, Could fitly sing the coming storm When Bright is bawling for Reform, And Russell runs through shambling way& And though a broader day may come; Old voices echo on the night, Old voices bring the old delight, In soft winds blown about a home. That haunted by the memory still, Shows violets mouldering to decay, And sadly falls the new year's day, With windy peals from hill to hill. So we to whom all grace belongs— The heirs of all the cycles bring, Must tune dyspeptic harps, and sing The refrain of our fatuous songs. And still the hills repeat the strain, For now whatever may befall, One happy thought is over all, The thought that—" Here we are again V" Lines by a Trooper ordered on Foreign Service AiR The Stirrup-Cup." The last Sally Lunn has been browned in the hall-, The last muffin battered by cook who is sleepiag. My cap and my cane are removed from the wall, Yet still a warm hand in my own I am beeping; My sergeant suspects that I'm sweet upon Jane, The Underground's handy, dear girl! we EruEi. sever; But pour out the ale, that thy trooper may d.ta.in A last glass of beer to his true housemaid ever I I cannot ride back—for no ticket appears, No money to get one unless I can borrow, I pledge thee my word, but do dry up those tears, Oh, love! that in stamps I will send it to-morrew Here's to thee, Jenny, and if it be willed That back from the Indies thy trooper oome never Till death he'll remember, that she who had filled His last glass of beer was his own housemaid evei 1

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