Wood will never wear out, thanks to Kyan, to Kyan!
He dips in a tank,

Any rafter or plank,-

And makes it immortal as Dian, as Dian!

If you steep but a thread,

It will hang by the head,

For ever, the largest old lion, old lion;

Or will cord up the trunk

Of an elephant drunk;

doubt it, yourself go and try 'un, and try 'un.

2.

In the days that are gone,

As to timber and stone,

Decay was by no means a shy 'un, a shy 'un.
He bolted our floors,

And our vessels by scores,

And the thirsty old rot was a dry 'un, a dry 'un!
Oak crumbled beneath

The dry blast of its breath,

As soon as it e'er came a-nigh 'un, a-nigh 'un ;
But gone is the day

Of that glutton Decay,

Since he can't eat his timber with Kyan, with Kyan!

3.

Say-now-what shall we steep

In the tank? just to keep.—

Shakspeare sniffed our great secret, the sly 'un, the sly 'un!
Hamlet, Macbeth, and Lear,

Have been Kyan'd, my dear,

By Nature's immortal Paul Pry 'un, Paul Pry 'un.
Shall the plays of the day

Take a plunge from decay?

(There is no need for Tell, or for Ion, for Ion ;) I fear he could not

Soak away the dry-rot

From some things:-But all rests on Kyan, on Kyan.

4.

Put the lid on the tank,

Not a crack for a plank,

While I point out one thing, as I fly on, I fly on,
Which really must not

Have a dip 'gainst dry-rot,

Stuff with cotton the ears of my Kyan, my Kyan.

In a whisper I speak,

(But 'twill rain for a week,

Or as long as St. Swithin will cry on, will cry on,-)

The moment I make

Your conviction awake

That Vauxhall wants no plunge 'gainst the dry 'un, the dry 'un.

Do not dip many books

5.

In our our anti-rot nooks;

Keep out novels, and all Sense cries Fie on! cries Fie on!
Though, since Wood turns sublime

In its strife against time,

Most heads that we know, will try Kyan, try Kyan.
Only think what great good

'Twould do Aldermen Wood,

(Elected for life) if they 'd try 'un, they'd try 'un ;-
Every word that I say

Is as true as the day,

And each hint you may safely rely on, rely on !

6

Then, hurrah! come uncork!

This dry-rot is dry work;

Bring the bottle, that one I've my eye on, my eye on ;

My spirit I'd steep

In its rich anti-deep,

And linger for morn, like Orion, Orion!

'Gad, the secret is out,

We've talk'd so much about;

My dog's on the scent,-oh! then hie on, then hie on !
"Tis the bottle, I feel,

Makes immortal mere deal,

And wine's the solution of Kyan, of Kyan!

R.

THE ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."

WHEN single-speech Hamilton made in the Irish Commons that one memorable hit, and persevered ever after in obdurate taciturnity, folks began very justly to suspect that all was not right; in fact, that the solitary egg on which he thus sat, plumed in all the glory of incubation, had been laid by another. The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is supposed to be the author of a single poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and setting criticism completely at defiance. I say supposed, for the gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John Moore," must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None. I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Britanny, having raised a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, in that unfortunate expedition commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending, against the forces of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that hemisphere.

He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL," by his Son, the following lines occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe. Perhaps Wolf Tone may have communicated them to his relative the clergyman on his return from France. Fides sit penès lectorem.

P. PROUT. THE ORIGINAL OF "NOT A DRUM WAS HEARD."

I.

Ni le son du tambour...ni la marche funèbre...
Ni le feu des soldats...ne marqua son départ.—
Mais du BRAVE à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres,
Mornes...nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart !

II.

De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre—
La lune à peine offrait un débile rayon;
La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre,
Quand de la bayonette on creusa le gazon.

III.

D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire

Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS;
Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire
'Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos.

IV.

La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée :

Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fût plein !
Mais on fixait du мORT la figure adorée...

Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain.

V.

Au demain ! quand ici oû sa fosse s'apprête,
Où son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots,
L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête,
Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots!

VI.

Ils terniront sa gloire...on pourra les entendre
Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer...ou

fol;

Il les laissera dire.-Eh! qu'importe A' SA CENDRE
Que la main d'un BRETON a confiêe au sol?

VII.

L'œuvre durait encor, quand retentit la cloche
Au sommet du beffroi :-et le canon lointain,
Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche,
Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain.

VIII.

Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement...
Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée;

Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument,

Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée !

H

GOSSIP WITH SOME OLD ENGLISH POETS.

BY CHARLES OLLIER.

ALL hail to the octo-syllabic measure! the most cheerful, buoyant, and terse of all metres; at once familiar and refined, and fitted more than any other to the narration of a gay and laughing tale. Lord Byron, who indulged in it not a little, was pleased nevertheless to condemn it for what he called its "fatal facility;" but we believe that its facility is more a matter for the enjoyment of the reader than for the execution of the writer; since, in the latter respect, it seems to demand so much of polish, point, and neatness, as to require, in its very absence of all apparent effort, no little labour in him who would do its claims full justice. Cowper, who was ambitious to excel in this pleasant verse, declared that the " easy jingle" of Mat. Prior was inimitable; but Prior, delightful as his octo-syllabic poetry undoubtedly is, has many rivals, not indeed among his contemporaries, but in poets who preceded and followed him. Shakspeare, for example, in whose boundless riches is found almost every variety of the Muse, has given us abundant specimens of this verse in the prologues to each act of " Pericles, Prince of Tyre," as spoken by the Ghost of old Gower, who, having in his Confessio Amantis, told the story afterwards dramatised by Shakspeare, is evoked from his "ashes" to explain to the spectators the progress of the incidents of the play. The following notturno could hardly have been as pleasantly conveyed in any other measure :—

"Now sleep yslacked hath the rout;

No din but snores, the house about,
Made louder by the o'er-fed breast
Of this most pompous marriage feast.
The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now crouches 'fore the mouse's hole;
And crickets sing at th' oven's mouth,
As the blither for their drouth.

Hymen hath brought the bride to bed."

Ben Jonson, too, has revelled in this metre: its sweet cheerfulness appears, for the time, to have drawn from his mind its austere and sarcastic qualities, and to have lulled the violence of his wit. Old Ben is, in short, never seen in so happy and amiable a light as when he writes in the octo-syllabic. Here is a specimen :

"Some act of Love bound to rehearse,

I thought to bind him in my verse;
Which, when he felt, Away!' quoth he,-
Can poets hope to fetter me?

It is enough they once did get
Mars and my mother in their net;
I wear not these my wings in vain.'
With which he fled me; and again
Into my rhymes could ne'er be got
By any art. Then wonder not
That, since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old."

But what shall we say of Herrick, the English Anacreon, who fondled this measure with such graceful dalliance? We cannot

resist the temptation of making an extract, and of italicising a line or two, that we may enjoy them with the reader :

"A sweet disorder in the dresse

Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse ;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticote;

A carelesse shooe-string, in whose tye
I see a wild civility;

Doe more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.”

Mark the ease, the play, the curiosa felicitas, of this exquisite little poem. Could it have been as happy in any other measure?

The stern and unflinching patriot, Andrew Marvell, evidently takes delight in the piquant grace of the octo-syllabic. Here is a passage from his poem addressed to the Lord Fairfax, descriptive of the grounds about that nobleman's house, in Yorkshire, called NunAppleton. Speaking of the meadows, Marvell says:—

"No scene, that turns with engines strange,
Does oftener than these meadows change;
For when the sun the grass hath vex'd,
The tawny mowers enter next;

Who seem like Israelites to be,

Walking on foot through a green sea.
To them the grassy deeps divide,
And crowd a lane on either side.

With whistling scythe, and elbow strong,
These massacre the grass along.

The mower now commands the field:
In whose new traverse seemeth wrought
A camp of battle newly fought;

Where, as the meads with hay, the plain
Lies quilted o'er with bodies slain :
The women that with forks it fling,
Do represent the pillaging.
And now the careless victors play,
Dancing the triumphs of the hay.
When, after this, 'tis piled in cocks,

Like a calm sea it shews the rocks."

The poems of Thomas Randolph, a writer of the seventeenth century, are not so well known as they deserve to be. A specimen, therefore, of his treatment of our favourite verse will be some such a novelty as is afforded by the revival of an obsolete fashion. He is addressing his mistress while walking through a grove :—

"See Zephyrus through the leaves doth stray,

And has free liberty to play,

And braid thy locks. And shall I find

Less favour than a saucy wind?

Now let me sit and fix my eyes

On thee that art my paradise.