what laborious assiduity stuck in their
eulogistic parentheses; with what recklessness tossed
their metaphors abroad! Doubtless, they had
their reward when, after executing the painful
operation of going down on the knees of their
hearts, and the mysterious process of agnising
their faith and loyalty, they were blessed
with the smiles and approbation of a monarch
so brilliant as James the First.

A PANEFUL CATASTROPHE.
A TALE OF NORTH DEVON.

I.
Our Gallic neighbours, modern " shoots of Arês,"
And, like their predecessors, famed in story,
Who fought in days of yore on Trojan prairies,
Somewhat too vain of homicidal glory;
Sneer at John Bull, whose only thought, they swear, is
To heap up riches, and in trade grow hoary;
"Une nation boutiquière," they call us,
And think by such a sobriquet to gall us.

II.
Well, so we are! "We own the soft impeachment.
We have no abstract love for cutting throats;
We don't think human bones to stop a breach meant,
Nor human flesh to rot in hostile moats.
Such exploits form grand subjects for a speechment;
But we prefer whole skins within our coats;
We care not for " la gloire," nor do we see a
Virtue in " making war for an idea."

III.
A Nice idea, by the way, it proved,
For which their Emperor made war in Italy.
To see the Austrians bodily removed,
He pledged his word; which word, than glas; more brittle, he
Broke without shame; yet Cavour it behoved
To pay him quid pro quo; declaring wittily,
The dogma by which France to fall or stand meant,
The Nicene Creed, and not the Tenth Commandment!

IV.
And yet old honest John has had his fights,
And stout ones, too, when duty seemed to call him
To vindicate an injured nation's rights,
Or chastise foes, who threatened to enthral him.
When Nap the First sent forth his swarms of blights
To ravage Europe, who stood up to maul him?
Who freely shed his blood, and spent his cash,
To pound the Usurper to "immortal smash?"

V.
Who, but John Bull? Who, quitting shops and farms,
And trade and merchandise, and home and altar,
Forsook the joys of peace for war's alarms,
To rescue Europe from that tyrant's halter;
For twenty years stood bravely to his arms,
And in his resolution scorned to falter,
Till, from his height, he hurled Gaul's idol down,
And stripped him of his empire and his crown.

VI.
Surely this sneer comes with indifferent grace
From men who've proved John's prowess in the field;
Who know that, with a foeman face to face,
Steel sword, no less than steel-yard, he can wield;
Whose fathers, too, the champions of their race,
John's stubborn valour oft has forced to yield,
Before and since the days of brave Queen Bessy,
From Waterloo to Agincourt and Cressy.

VII.
Shopkeeper as he is, John has his whims,
And often takes to fighting, as I've read it,
In other's quarrels, where he risks his limbs,
And for his pains gets nothing but the credit—
Debt, I should say! For debt's the cloud that dims
War's splendour, and makes thoughtful people dread it;
Then, as to making war for an idea,
What think you of the war in the Crimea?

VIII.
The mention of this last suggests a tale,
Which, though it had a ludicrous conclusion,
Shows how John's warlike instincts still prevail
(As venturous foes may find to their confusion)
Above his love of trade and Bills of Sale;
How, spite of this same shopkeeping delusion,
Though other folks may blow their trumpets louder,
John loves the clang of arms and smell of powder.

IX.
There stands a borough in a western county—
I shan't say where, but give you leave to guess;
A borough chartered oft by Royal bounty,
Though in this land you'll nowhere find a less.
His hobby should some antiquary mount, he
Would ascertain (I doubt it, I confess!)
Among its musty records, after long quest,
That it was founded years before the Conquest!

X.
But be that as it may, the borough stands—
And plumes itself upon its ancient standing,
More than upon its revenues and lands;
Which, sooth to say, have ceased to be commanding.
For oft, when slander's tongue its meanness brands,
It boasts—its common chest with pride expanding—
"While Exeter was yet a furzy down,
Our ancient borough was a corporate town!"

XI.
A Mayor and Corporation, too, it shows,
Though sorely pinched at times to fill its quorum;
Sergeants-at-mace, and jurymen in rows,
Rare boys at sessions' feasts to drain a jorum.
A Guildhall and a Jail its bounds enclose,
Where Justice reigns, as in the Roman Forum;
With Quarter Sessions, held in formal order,
A Town-clerk eke, and (memini!) Recorder!

XII.
How it escaped Municipal Reform,
Which doomed much larger boroughs to perdition,
And raised throughout the land a general storm
Against the authors of that inquisition,
Heaven only knows! One reason, 'mid the swarm,
Which might be rendered for this strange omission,
Is that, however willing to withdraw it,
It was so small—they really never saw it!

XIII.
Well, not long after the Crimean war,
When one of John Bull's martial transports seized him,
And every country town was clamouring for
Some trophy of the foe, who long had teased him;
The gallant Mayor of (I must beg once more
To name no names!) resolved, the idea pleased him,
To signalise his mayoralty by something,
Which, in a man of peace, you'll deem a rum thing: