And many of us have thriven in this Saxon-settled land, And all of us have multiplied, till we're a goodly band, And throw a fourth of Gotham's votes, be pleased to understand.

And some of us are lawyers, and have risen to rank and riches

What a bloody shame to say of us we don't wear any

breeches!

And since we tolerate the laws and keep them

we must,

when

And though you all are heretics, don't tread you in the dust, Considering these services, we've not the smallest doubt That you'll proceed immediately to kick this Bulwer out; And if it should bring on a war, we're ready for the slaughter,

We'll talk as big, and run as fast, as we did across the water, And so of course Your Excellency will do all that's right, And we, your said memorialists, will ever swear and fight. "Ever pray" was too pacific for the order of the night, So they amended as above, which pleased the meeting quite.

A SPECIMEN OF THE PUFF POE

TICAL.

Spirit of the Times, July 1851.

I HAVE a friend one P. C. K -
Who selleth the best of all Champagne.

Champagne wine is good I wot,
Whether the weather be cold or hot;
When Boreas blows

And you're almost froze

From the tip of your nose

To the tips of your toes,

Then how your heart glows as the beverage flows
That makes you see everything couleur de rose
Or in the dog-days

When the sun's fierce rays

Set all in a blaze

And your blood seems to boil

And your butter turns oil

And the freshest of chops and steaks will spoil
And your face grows brown.

And your collars drop down

And there is n't a soul that you know left in town,
Save in Wall Street, where brokers, by way of preparing
For the still hotter temperature whither they're faring
Keep shaving and cornering, bulling and bearing,
(If the Editor shrinks

From this stanza, and thinks

Such an insinuation might possibly stop all his
Circulation in this one commercial metropolis.
Why then he may just

Leave it out and be

blessed,

Or fill up with asterisks as he likes best)
And your poor tired muse

Beseechingly wooes

The balmiest breezes of eve to come at her

In short, under every stage of thermometer
All times and all seasons are good for Champagne
Especially that of P. C. K. -

Some years ago there was going on
A great deal of talk about Du Brimont
And after that again years a few

There was still more talk about Cordon Bleu
And 'tis now the fashion to talk about Mumm
(The very name says, in its praises be dumb)
And some about Heidseck will prate for a week (it
Might hide very long before I would seek it)
And your grave Bostonian so stately of pace,
With second hand English writ in his face,
Of whom you may say without any libel, he
Claims to be master of omne scibile
And in every thing to be men's guider

Will talk to you half an hour about Schreider;
At one time Bacchanals all confest
That Brigham's Sillery was the best,
It used to gladden me when I spied
His grape leaf gilt on a bottle's side

But pallida mors who lets none escape
Without leave stalked away with our grape
And a very good fellow well known to me
Hangs out a wine that they call N. B.

If any one's cross or troubled with spleen, he
Will find it a capital Nota bene

But I'm sure there never was any Champagne
Like the brand of P. C. K.

*

And I remember it happened to me
When I was a Cantab at Trinity;

A friend who lived in the land of the Gaul
Sent me some wine that was rather tall,
The name I was stupid enough to forget,
But the smack of the juice I remember yet.
'Twas a creamy wine of roseate hue
Like rubies dessolved in ambrosial dew,
And we brought in good fellows not a few
To carry a rich Symposium through.
Oh 'twas a goodly sight to see

The mirth of that revelling company!

The Celts that meet about the Park so notedly irascible So prominent in everything that's make-a-man-jackass-able,

Could not have made more noise than we and scarce have

been more riotous;

We got a going such a pace no mortal man could quiet us; For one rose up and speechified and one sat down and sang Another laughed the while he quaffed until the old roof rang, And one was quoting Addison and one was quoting Rabelais, And one declaiming Locksley Hall was by no means a shabby lay

And one far gone, with something twixt a hiccup and a cough in his

Throat, lay along ejaculating scraps of Aristophanes. Now this was remarkably tall Champagne

But nothing to that of P. C. K.

And if you would know

Where you must go

I've had to strike out the name because the brand is n't now

what it "used to was". 1857.

To find the wine
That is so divine

Whenever you feel like a fit of the blues.
Take up your hat and put on your shoes
(Or boots as the case may be) on your feet
And go down to 80 Beaver Street,

For there is the office of P. C. K.,

And there you will find the best Champagne.

THE UNTRUE AND MELANCHOLY HISTORY MARGUERITE GAUTIER. "Spirit of the Times," July 1853.

MISS GAUTIER was a very nice girl,
With lips like coral, and teeth like pearl,
Cheeks very pink, and skin very fair,

Big blue eyes and golden hair;

And her style and her figure were very complete,
And her hands and her feet

Were remarkably neat,

And her name was Margaret (in French Marguerite).
In short, she was something uncommonly sweet.
All sorts of men, from the prince to the farmer,
Had to admire her, she was such a charmer.

"Sweets unto sweet," the strict conclusion brings,
That pretty women must, like pretty things,
Enumeration's power it might perplex
To note the longings of the fairer sex;
The growing wants that on indulgence wait,
The fragile china, and the massive plate,
The winter's heavy shawls and sable fur,
The summer's robes of painted gossamer,
The antique laces, and the fresh brocade,
The well-trained footman, and accomplished maid
The neat chaussure that tempts the passing beau;
The diamond's sea of light, the ruby's glow;

The prancing "steppers," and the gilt coupe;
The first new peaches, and the last new play;
And all the pride of life and lust of eye,
That fashion's fickle forms of fantasy supply.

But alas! for the visions of ladies romantic!
Not even the fairest perpetually can tick.
Margaret Gautier

Had no money to pay

For all the fine things she would have every day.
Her face was her fortune, as says the old song,
And she soon found some trouble in getting along,
For she hadn't the rhino to come it so strong.

In such a tight place being Margaret Gautier,
She took to the only contrivable way,
I'd rather her line,

Though it may be quite fine,

Should ne'er be adopted by any of mine.
Open house for whoe'er came along
(Provided he'd only the tin),

She kept, and she hung out no end of amans,
(You see that the subject compels me to trench
Every once in a while on the tongue of the French),
Taking strangers' and natives, too, in.

Now you won't understand me as meaning t' advance
That such things as this happen only in France.
I haven't the least dubitation that it is

An every-day case in our populous cities;
Nay, in this virtuous town you might easily find,
If you so unvirtuously should be inclined,
Ladies as gay

As Margaret Gautier;

Only we don't so prize 'em
As to immortalize 'em

Every day, in a different way,

First in a novel, and then in a play. But this is a trait of French civilization, That's greatly conducive to edification, As yet we are not so far forward; but ah! In the good time that's coming, nous changerons cela. When socialism over all orders and ranks is, And folks love in leashes, and live in phalanxes,