SONGS FOR CATARRHS.

“The variable climate of our native land,” as Rowland the Minstrel of Macassar has elegantly expressed it, like a Roman epicure, deprives our nightingales of their tongues, and the melodious denizens of our drawing-rooms of their “sweet voices.”

Vainly has Crevelli raised a bulwark of lozenges against the Demon of Catarrh!  Soreness will invade the throat, and noses run in every family, seeming to be infected with a sentimental furor for blooming—­we presume from being so newly blown.  We have seen noses chiseled, as it were, from an alabaster block, grow in one short day scarlet as our own, as though they blushed for the continual trouble they were giving their proprietors; whilst the peculiar intonation produced by the conversion of the nasals into liquids, and then of the liquids ultimately into mutes, leads to the inference that there must be a stoppage about the bridge, and should be placarded, like that of Westminster, “No thoroughfare.”

It has been generally supposed that St. Cecilia with a cold in her head would be incompetent to “Nix my Dolly;” and this erroneous and popular prejudice is continually made the excuse for vocal inability during the winter months.  Now the effect which we have before described upon the articulation of the catarrhed would be, in our opinion, so far from displeasing, that we feel it would amply compensate for any imperfections of tune.  For instance, what can be finer than the alteration it would produce in the well-known ballad of “Oh no, we never mention her!”—­a ballad which has almost become wearisome from its sweetness and repetition.  With a catarrh the words would run thus:—­

  “O lo, we lever beltiol her,
  Her labe is lever heard.”

Struck with this modification of sound, PUNCH, anxious to cater even for the catarrhs of his subscribers, begs to furnish them with a “calzolet,” which he trusts will be of more service to harmonic meetings than pectoral lozenges and paregoric, as we have anticipated the cold by converting every m into b, and every n into l.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH.

  By Bary A_ll_e is like the su_l_,
    Whe_l_ at the daw_l_ it fli_l_gs
  Its golde_l_ s_b_iles of light upo_l_
    Earth’s gree_l_ and lo_l_ely thi_l_gs. 
  I_l_ vai_l_ I sue, I o_l_ly wi_l_
    Fro_b_ her a scor_l_ful frow_l_;
  But soo_l_ as I by prayers begi_l_,
    She cries O lo! bego_l_e. 
  Yes! yes! the burthe_l_ of her so_l_g
    Is lo! lo! lo! bego_l_e!

  By Bary A_ll_e is like the moo_l_,
    Whe_l_ first her silver shee_l_,
  Awakes the lighti_l_gale’s soft tu_l_e,
    That else had sile_l_t bee_l_. 
  But Bary A_ll_e, like darkest light,
    O_l_ be, alas! looks dow_l_;
  Her s_b_iles o_l_ others bea_b_ their light,
    Her frow_l_s are all by ow_l_. 
  I’ve but o_l_e burthe_l_ to by so_l_g—­
   Her frow_l_s are all by ow_l_.