ing worth a pin,
Unless he tried the _covers_ made
Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth,
In Surrey not a button;
The Speaker said he often tried
The _Manors_ about _Button_.

No county from his tricks was safe;
In each he tried his lucks,
And when the keepers were in _Beds_,
He often was at _Bucks_.

And when he went to _Bucks_, alas!
They always came to _Herts_;
And even _Oxon_ used to wish
That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual _Hants_,
Old _Cheshire_ laid his plots:
He got entrapp'd by legal _Berks_,
And lost his life in _Notts_.

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?
I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came,
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap--alas!
His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;
I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep',--
No March of Intellect it was,
But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?
I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel
Appear'd to deeply strike:--
"Walk in," he said, "among the dead,
And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone,
Half turned into a corse;
A cannon was his bolster, and
His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,
Lord, here has been a skrimmage!
What have they done to your poor breast
That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head,
You're come to my last kissing;
Before I'm set in the Gazette
As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell
Right in my stomach sticks;
French mortars don't agree so well
With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance
At Brussels was to be;--
Instead of opening a ball,
A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has,
And well it does fulfil it;--
I wish mine hadn't come so straight.
But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier
And cut me on the chest;--
He had no pity in his heart,
For he had _steel'd his breast_.

"Next thing a lancer, with his