[3] Communicated by M.L.B., Great Marlow, Bucks.

    [4] Vide Mirror, vol. xviii. p. 343.—­Note.

Natural Zoological Garden.

SECUNDERABAD, 1828.

Your description of the London Zoological Garden, reminds me that there is, what I suppose I must term, a most beautiful Zoological Hill, just one mile and a half from the spot whence I now write; on this I often take my recreation, much to the alarm of its inhabitants; viz. sundry cheetars, bore-butchers, (or leopards) hyenas, wolves, jackalls, foxes, hares, partridges, etc.; but not being a very capital shot, I have seldom made much devastation amongst them.  Under the hill are swamps and paddy-fields, which abound in snipe and other game.  Now, is not this a Zoological Garden on the grandest scale?

H.C.B.

* * * * *

OLD POETS.

* * * * *

BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

(From “England’s Heroical Epistles[5].”)

  Faire stood the wind for France,
  When we, our sayles advance,
  Nor now to proue our chance
    Longer will tarry;
  But putting to the mayne,
  At Kaux, the mouth of Sene,
  With all his martiall trayne,
    Landed King Harry.

  And taking many a fort,
  Furnished in warlike sort,
  Marcheth towards Agincourt,
    In happy houre. 
  Skirmishing day by day,
  With those that stop’d his way,
  Where the French gen’ral lay
    With all his power.

  Which in his hight of pride. 
  King Henry to deride,
  His ransom to prouide,
    To our king sending. 
  Which he neglects the while,
  As from a nation vile,
  Yet with an angry smile,
    Their fall portending.

  And turning to his men,
  Quoth our brave Henry, then,
  “Though they to one be ten,
    Be not amazed,
  Yet have we well begunne,
  Battells so bravely wonne,
  Have ever to the sonne,
    By fame beene raysed.”

  “And for myself,” quoth he,
  “This my full rest shall be,
  England ne’er mourn for me,
    Nor more esteem me. 
  Victor I will remaine,
  Or on this earth be slaine,
  Never shall shee sustaine
    Losse to redeeme me.”

  Poiters and Cressy tell,
  When most their pride did swell,
  Under our swords they fell.

    No lesse our skill is,
  Then when oure grandsire great,
  Clayming the regall seate,
  By many a warlike feate,
    Lop’d the French lillies.

  The Duke of York so dread,
  The vaward led,
  Wich the maine Henry sped,
    Amongst his Hench_men_,
  Excester had the rere,
  A brauer man not there,
  O Lord, how hot they were,
    On the false Frenchmen.

  They now to fight are gone,
  Armour on armour shone,
  Drumme now to drumme did grone,
    To hear was wonder,
  That with cryes they make,
  The very earth did shake,
    Thunder to thunder.