quadrille,
  Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill;
        Perspiring raver
        Over a semi-quaver;
  Who tunes his pipes so well, he’ll tell you that
  The natural key of Johnny Bull’s—­A flat. 
  Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven—­
  Arch impudent improver of Beethoven—­
  Tricksy professor of charlatanerie—­
  Inventor of musical artillery—­
  Barbarous rain and thunder maker—­
  Unconscionable money taker—­
  Travelling about both near and far,
  Toll to exact at every bar—­
    What brings thee here again,
    To desecrate old Drury’s fane? 
      Egregious attitudiniser! 
      Antic fifer! com’st to advise her
  ’Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls? 
      To raze her benches,
      That Gallic wenches
  Might play their brazen antics at masked balls?
      Ci-devant waiter
      Of a quarante-sous traiteur,
  Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven,
  To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven? 
  And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on,
  Saucily serve Mozart with sauce-piquant;
  Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean—­
  Turn Matthew Locke to potage a la julienne! 
      Go! go! sir, do,
      Back to the rue,
      Where lately you
  Waited upon each hungry feeder,
  Playing the garcon, not the leader. 
      Pray, put your hat on,
      Coupez votre baton.
        Bah
        Va!!

* * * * *

CLAR’ DE KITCHEN.

It is now pretty well understood, that if the Tories come into office, there will be a regular turn out of the present royal household.  Her Majesty, through the gracious condescension of the new powers, will be permitted to retain her situation in the royal establishment, but on the express condition that there shall be—­

[ILLUSTRATION:  NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED.]

* * * * *

A PARTY OF MEDALLERS.

A subscription has been opened for a medal to commemorate the return of Lord John Russell for the city of London.  We would suggest that his speech to the citizens against the corn-laws would form an appropriate inscription for the face of the medal, while that to the Huntingdonshire farmers in favour of them would be found just the thing for the reverse.

* * * * *

A CHAPTER ON BOOTS.

“Boots?  Boots!” Yes, Boots! we can write upon boots—­we can moralise upon boots; we can convert them, as Jacques does the weeping stag in “As You Like It,” (or, whether you like it or not,) into a thousand similes.  First, for—­but, “our sole’s in arms and eager for the fray,” and so we will at once head our dissertation as we would a warrior’s host with