Jock entered the Life-Guards-bade Scotland adieu—
Fought bravely for laurels at fam'd Waterloo;

An' his conduct was such that, e'er five years had passed,
He was made, by Lord H- master-farrier at last.
Jean's rent aye was paid; an' she still was alive
To see her brave son in the year twenty-five;
An' nane wad ha'e kent that the whisker'd dragoon
Was the same tricky nickem-Jean Finlater's loun.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

By kind Permission of Messrs. R. Bentley & Son.

THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar ;
Many a knight and many a squire,

With a great many more of lesser degree,

In sooth a goodly company;

And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween, was a prouder seen,

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims !

In and out through the motley rout,"

That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there like a dog in a fair,

Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air, he perch'd on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!'
And the priests, with awe, as such freaks they saw,
Said, "Whatever has come to that little Jackdaw!"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little singing-boys,-dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due, two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and filled with water, as pure

As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne ;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more a napkin bore,

Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink".

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws his costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight by the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout, and an awful rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out;
The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,-they turn up the plates,-
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
-They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs :-
But no-no such thing;-They can't find THE RING!
And the abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, He cursed him living, he cursed him dying! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

The day was gone, the night came on,

The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn;
When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!

No longer gay, as on yesterday;

His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way ;—
His pinions droop'd-he could hardly stand,-
His head was bald as the palm of your hand;

His eye so dim, so wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM !—
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,

66

'Pray, be so good as to walk this way !"

Slower and slower he limped on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,

'Midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

-When those words were heard, that poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more, even than before;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about with a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied,—or if any one swore,-

Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;

When, as words were too faint his merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint ;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow !

MISCELLANEOUS PROSE SELECTIONS.

LEARNING BY HEART.-Vernon Lushington.)

TILL he has fairly tried it, I suspect a reader does not know how much he would gain from committing to memory passages of real excellence; precisely because he does not know how much he overlooks in merely reading. Learn one true poem by heart, and see if you do not find it so. Beauty after beauty will reveal itself, in chosen phrase, or happy music, or noble suggestion, otherwise undreamed of. It is like looking at one of Nature's wonders through a microscope. Again: how much in such a poem that you really did feel admirable and lovely on a first reading, passes away, if you do not give it a further and much better reading!-passes away utterly, like a sweet sound, or an image on the lake, which the first breath of wind dispels. If you could only fix that image, as the photographers do theirs, so beautifully, so perfectly! And you can do so! Learn it by heart, and it is yours for ever!

I have said a true poem ; for naturally men will choose to learn poetry-from the beginning of time they have done so. To immortal verse the memory gives a willing, a joyous, and a lasting home. However, some prose is poetical, is poetry, and altogether worthy to be learned by heart; and the learning is not so very difficult. It is not difficult or toilsome to learn that which pleases us; and the labour, once given, is forgotten, while the result remains.

Poems and noble extracts, whether of verse or prose, once so reduced into possession and rendered truly our own, may be to us a daily pleasure-better far than a whole library unused. They may come to us in our dull moments, to refresh us as with spring flowers; in