of Candia._

O! Ginnee was a bony lasse,
Which maks the world to woonder
How ever it should com to passe
That wee did part a sunder.

The driven snow, the rose so rare,
The glorious sunne above thee,
Can not with my Ginnee compare,
She was so wonderous lovely.

Her merry lookes, her forhead high,
Her hayre like golden-wyer,
Her hand and foote, her lipe or eye,
Would set a saint on fyre.

And for to give Giunee her due,
Thers no ill part about her;
The turtle-dove's not half so true;
Then whoe can live without her?

King Solomon, where ere he lay,
Did nere unbrace a kinder;
O! why should Ginnee gang away,
And I be left behind her?

Then will I search each place and roome
From London to Virginny,
From Dover-peere to Scanderoone,
But I will finde my Ginny.

But Ginny's turned back I feare,
When that I did not mind her;
Then back to England will I steare,
To see where I can find her.

And haveing Ginnee once againe,
If sheed doe her indeavour,
The world shall never make us twaine--
Weel live and dye together.

* * * * *

SONG BY KING CHARLES II.

_On the Duchess of Portsmouth leaving England._

_(For the Mirror.)_

Bright was the morning, cool the air,
Serene was all the skies;
When on the waves I left my dear,
The center of my joys;
Heav'n and nature smiling were.
And nothing sad but I.

Each rosy field their odours spread,
All fragrant was the shore;
Each river God rose from his bed,
And sighing own'd her pow'r;
Curling the waves they deck'd their heads,
As proud of what they bore.

Glide on ye waves, bear these lines,
And tell her my distress;
Bear all these sighs, ye gentle winds,
And waft them to her breast;
Tell her if e'er she prove unkind,
I never shall have rest.

* * * * *

The Anecdote Gallery

VOLTAIRE.

_(From various Authorities.)_

The Chateau of Ferney, the celebrated residence of Voltaire, six miles
from Geneva, is a place of very little picturesque beauty: its broad
front is turned to the high road, without any regard to the prospect,
and the garden is adorned with cut trees, parapet walls with
flower-pots, jets d'eaux, &c. Voltaire's bed-room is shown in its
pristine state, just as he left it in 1777, when, after a residence of
twenty years, he went to Paris to enjoy a short triumph and die. Time
and travellers have much impaired the furniture of light-blue silk,