Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
  Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
  Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless
  Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls’ eyes,
  May chance to hit a sheep’s.

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
  And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
  Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend apiece,
  This pleasant thought to give—­
When they were dead, they thus should have
  Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long
  The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
  They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan
  Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
  Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,
  But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
  They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
  Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul’s Cathedral now
  Be doomed to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach
  Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
  Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr, B., I do agree—­
  But think of Honor’s Courts! 
If we go off without a shot,
  There will be strange reports.

But look, the morning now is bright,
  Though cloudy it begun: 
Why can’t we aim above, as if
  We had called out the sun?

Soup into the harmless air
  Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
  That upshot in the end!

A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE.

    “Our Crummie is a dainty cow.”—­Scotch Song.

On that first Saturday in May,
  When Lords and Ladies, great and grand,
Repair to see what each R.A. 
  Has done since last they sought the Strand,
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue,
In short, what’s called the private view,—­
Amongst the guests—­the deuce knows how
She got in there without a row—­
There came a large and vulgar dame,
With arms deep red, and face the same,
Showing in temper not a Saint;
No one could guess for why she came,
Unless perchance to “scour the Paint.”

From wall to wall she forced her way,
Elbowed Lord Durham—­poked Lord Grey—­
Stamped Stafford’s toes to make him move,
And Devonshire’s Duke received a shove;
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge,
She made the Vice, his Honor, budge,
And gave a pinch to Park, the judge. 
As for the ladies in this stir,
The highest rank gave way to her.

From number one and number two,
She searched the pictures through and through,
On benches stood, to inspect the high ones,
And squatted down to see the shy ones.