in after years,
    And deem he is more than man? 
  Or will he feel that he’s but a speck
    In creation’s mighty plan? 
  Let us hope the best, and rattle our bell,
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince, when be grows a boy,
    Will be taught by men of lore,
  From the “dusty tome” of the ancient sage,
    As Kings have been taught before. 
  But will there be one good, true man near,
    To tutor the infant heart? 
  To tell him the world was made for all,
    And the poor man claims his part? 
  We trust there will; so we’ll rattle our bell,
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

* * * * *

A CON-CONSTITUTIONAL.

Why is the little Prince of Wales like the 11th Hussars?—­Because it is Prince Albert’s own.

* * * * *

HARD TO REMEMBER.

Lord Monteagle, on being shown one of the Exchequer Bills, supposed to have been forged, declared that he did not know if the signature attached to it was his handwriting or not.  We do not feel surprised at this—­his Lordship has put his hand to so many jobs that it would be impossible he could remember every one of them.

* * * * *

THE CROPS.

A most unfounded report of the approaching demise of Colonel Sibthorp reached town early last week.  Our Leicester correspondent has, however, furnished us with the following correct particulars, which will be read with pleasure by those interested in the luxuriant state of the gallant orator’s crops.  The truth is, he was seen to enter a hair-dresser’s shop, and it got about amongst the breathless crowd which soon collected, that the imposing toupee, the enchanting whiskers that are the pride of the county, were to be cropped!  This mistake was unhappily removed to give place to a more fatal one; for instead of submitting to the shears, the venerable joker bought a paper of poudre unique, from which arose the appalling report that he was about to dye!

Our kind friend the indefatigable “correspondent” of the Observer, informs us from authority upon which every reliance may be placed, that Mr. Grant, the indefatigable statist and author of “Lights and Shadows of London Life,” is now patiently engaged in researches of overwhelming importance to the public.  He will, in his next edition of the above-named work, be enabled to state from personal inquiry, how many ladies residing within a circuit of ten miles round London wear false fronts, with the colours respectively of their real and their artificial