She will think of the helpless pauper babe
    That lies at a milkless breast! 
  And then we will rattle our little bell. 
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince, we have not a doubt,
    Has set up a little cry;
  But a dozen sweet voices were there to soothe,
    And sing him a lullaby. 
  We wonder much if a voice so small
    Could reach our loved Monarch’s ear;
  If so, she said “God bless the poor! 
    Who cry and have no one near.” 
  So then we will rattle our little bell,
  And shout and laugh, and sing as well—­
       Roo-too-tooit!  Shallabella! 
       Life to the Prince!  Fallalderalla!

  Our little Prince (though he heard them not)
    Hath been greeted with honied words,
  And his cheeks have been fondled to win a smile
    By the Privy Council Lords. 
  Will he trust the “charmer” 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!