Wassail to Her whose crown is now
          The quiet star of hope and peace;
      The blessings on her royal brow
          Are many! may her joys increase!
               Swiftly the moments roll, my lads,
                     Swiftly the moments roll!

     Wassail to those whose household smiles
          Have given the hearth a double glow!
     Wassail to all the sister Isles,
          For ever one in weal and woe!
               Pass round the piping bowl, my lads,
                     Pass round the piping bowl.

     Wassail to France! and may she draw
          This night a worthy King and Queen,
     Or virgin-pure Republic; Law
          The guardian of her spotless sheen.
               I hear a Death-bell knoll, my lads,
                     I hear a Death-bell knoll!

     High wassail to the Sultan! he,
          To whom we owe a nation's debt;
     Who dared to set the Patriot free,
          And let the carrion-eagles fret!
               Pass round the piping bowl, my lads,
                    Pass round the piping bowl!

     Wassail to Austria?—No, good faith!
          So little can our hopes agree;
     But rather waft, with genial breath,
          Wassail to noble Hungary!
               I hear a funeral dole, my lads,
                    I hear a funeral dole.

     Wassail to Prussia? she, whose chance
          It was to have been the German star:
     But, on a Gorgon's countenance
          She gazed, whom Europe calls the Czar:
               Wassail to Polish hopes, my lads,
                    Pass round the foaming bowl.

     Wassail to proud Italia! hail
          And wassail! not in vain she clanks
     Her cruel chains, and shrieks her wail
          Above her children's shatter'd ranks;
                Swiftly the moments roll, my lads,
                     Swiftly the moments roll!

     Wassail to those free men o' the West,
          Whose land is by the setting sun;
     The yearning of a mother's breast
          Unites us, and our hopes are one.
               Wassail to every soul, my lads,
                    Wassail to every soul!

A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.

I AM tempted to relate it, as having
interested me in a quiet sort of way, and as
being the latest intelligence of Our Society at
Cranford.

I thought, after Miss Jenkyns's death, that
probably my connexion with Cranford would
cease; at least, that it would have to be kept
up by correspondence, which bears much the
same relation to personal intercourse that the
books of dried plants I sometimes see, ("Hortus
Siccus," I think they call the thing,) do
to the living and fresh flowers in the lanes
and meadows. I was pleasantly surprised,
therefore, by receiving a letter from Miss
Pole, (who had always come in for a
supplementary week after my annual visit to Miss
Jenkyns) proposing that I should go and
stay with her; and then, in a couple of days
after my acceptance, came a note from Miss
Matey, in which, in a rather circuitous and
very humble manner, she told me how much
pleasure I should confer, if I could spend a
week or two with her, either before or after I
had been at Miss Pole's; "for," she said,
"since my dear sister's death, I am well aware
I have no attractions to offer; it is only to
the kindness of my friends that I can owe
their company."

Of course, I promised to come to dear Miss
Matey, as soon as I had ended my visit to
Miss Pole; and the day after my arrival at
Cranford, I went to see her, much wondering
what the house would be like without Miss
Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed
aspect of things. Miss Matey began to cry as
soon as she saw me. She was evidently
nervous from having anticipated my call. I
comforted her as well as I could; and I found
the best consolation I could give, was the
honest praise that came from my heart as I
spoke of the deceased. Miss Matey slowly
shook her head over each virtue as it was
named, and attributed to her sister; at last
she could not restrain the tears which had
long been silently flowing, but hid her face
behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.

"Dear Miss Matey!" said I, taking her
hand—for indeed I did not know in what way
to tell her how sorry I was for her, left
deserted in the world. She put down her
handkerchief, and said—

"My dear, I'd rather you did not call me
Matey. She did not like it; but I did many
a thing she did not like, I'm afraid—and now
she's gone! If you please, my love, will you
call me Matilda?"

I promised faithfully, and began to practise
the new name with Miss Pole that very day;
and, by degrees, Miss Matilda's feeling on
he subject was known through Cranford, and
the appellation of Matey was dropped by all,
except a very old woman, who had been nurse
in the rector's family, and had persevered,
through many long years, in calling the Miss
Jenkynses "the girls;" she said "Matey,"
to the day of her death.

My visit to Miss Pole was very quiet.
Miss Jenkyns had so long taken the lead in
Cranford, that, now she was gone, they hardly
knew how to give a party. The Honourable
Mrs. Jamieson, to whom Miss Jenkyns
herself had always yielded the post of honour,
was fat and inert, and very much at the
mercy of her old servants. If they chose her
to give a party, they reminded her of the
necessity for so doing; if not, she let it alone.
There was all the more time for me to hear
old-world stories from Miss Pole, while she
sat knitting, and I making my father's shirts.
I always took a quantity of plain sewing to