John again,
"I let poor Louis sup;
On both I use my ointment, and
Their wounds I did bind up.

"Ah! weel a day," then said the Dame,
But was affected sore,
"I see you have some small excuse
That you have done it for.

"I have some little hopes left yet
That you may yet have sense,
To know your high position, John,
Instead of saving pence.

"You yet will learn that duty, sir,
Cannot be ignored,
However disagreeable when
Placed before the board.

"And let me tell you he who shirks
The responsibility
Of seeing right, is doing wrong,
And earns humility.

"And 'tis an empty-headed dream,
To boast of skill and power,
But dare not even interfere
At this important hour.

"Better far confess at once
You're not fit for your place,
Than have a name 'Heroic,' sir,
Branded with disgrace.

"But I'll not say another word;
My deputies, to you;
But hope you will a warning take,
This moment from poor Loo.

"And hoping, John, your enemies
May never have the chance
To see you paid for watching Will
Thrash poor weak Louis France."

[Picture: Decorative picture of plant]

Charmin' Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

On Aire's bonny benks wi' her meadows so green,
There's an ancient owd hall to-day may be seen,
That wor built in the days of some owd feudal king,
Of whom the owd bards delighted to sing.
Tho' its splendour's now faded, its greatness was then
Known to its foemen as Red Lion's den;
'Neath its armorial shield, an' hoary owd wall,
I now see Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Her majestic black eyes true beauty display,
Resemblin' truly the goddess of day;
Her dark-flowin' ringlets, you'd think as they shone,
'At Venus hed fashion'd 'em after her awn.
For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind,
But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind:
'Twod o' pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call,
To see sweet Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Like the tall mountain fir, she's as steady, I trow,
When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow;
The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,
Are gentle Rebecca's sweet gales of love.
Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows,
Has the beautiful scent of the pink an' the rose;
There's no nymph from the East to Niagara's Fall,
To equal Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Her toe points the grahnd wi' sich beauty an' grace,
Nor varies a hair's-breadth, sud yu measure her pace:
An' when dress'd i' her gi