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(H)ALL IS LOST NOW!

’Sir B. HALL is still Sir B. Hall.  Where is the peerage—­the “B-all and end-all” of his patriotism?  Really the Whigs ought to have given the poor dog a bone, considering with what perseverance he has always been

[Illustration:  STANDING FOR MARROWBONE (MARYLEBONE).]

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When a person holds an argument with his neighbour on the opposite aide of the street, why is there no chance of their agreeing?—­Because they argue from different premises.

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NOVEL SUBSCRIPTIONS.

Looking into an Australian paper the other day, we cast our eye over a list of subscriptions for the “St. Patrick’s Orphan School, Windsor;” which, after enumerating several sums, varying from 10l. to five shillings, ended with the following singular contributions:—­

    MR. BURKE—­A supply of potatoes. 
    A FRIEND—­Five pounds of beef, and a coat. 
    A FRIEND IN NEED—­A shoulder of mutton. 
    A POOR WOMAN—­A large damper. 
    AN EMIGRANT—­Ten quarts of milk. 
    AN EMIGRANT—­A frying-pan.

At first we were disposed to be amused with the heterogeneous nature of the contributions, but, on reflection, we felt disposed to applaud a plan which enabled every one to bestow a portion of any article of which he possesses a superabundance.  If, for instance, a similar subscription were began here, we might expect to find the following contributions:—­

    SIR ROBERT PEEL—­A large stock of political consistency. 
    LORD LONDONDERRY—­An ounce of wit. 
    LORD NORMANBY—­A complete copy of “Yes and No.” 
    COLONEL SIBTHORP—­A calf’s-head, garnished. 
    THE BISHOP OF EXETER—­His pastoral blessing. 
    LORD MELBOURNE AND LORD JOHN RUSSELL—­A pair of cast-off slippers. 
    MR. WAKELY—­A dish of Tory flummery. 
    DAN O’CONNELL—­A prime lot of

[Illustration:  REAL IRISH BUTTER.]

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SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—­NO. 7.

  Fair Daphne has tresses as bright as the hue
    That illumines the west when a summer-day closes;
  Her eyes seem like violets laden with dew,
    Her lips will compare with the sweetest of roses. 
  By Daphne’s decree I am doom’d to despair,
    Though ofttimes I’ve pray’d the fair maid to revoke it. 
  “No—­Colin I love”—­(thus will Daphne declare)
    “Put that in your pipe, if you will, sir, and smoke it.”

  Once I thought that she loved me (O! fatal deceit),
    For she wore at the dance the gay wreath I had twined her;
  She smiled when I swore that I envied each sweet,
    And vow’d that in love’s rosy chains I would bind her. 
  I press’d her soft hand, and a blush dyed her cheek;
    “Oh! there’s love,” I exclaim’d, “in that eye’s liquid glancing.” 
  She spoke, and I think I can still hear her speak—­
    “You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”