“Do you know he has a mighty purty method ov his own, bud thin, though id might do wid Oliver, it was all nonsense wid me, so afore you could say Jack Lattin, I caught him wid my left hand undher the ear, an’ tumbled him up on his throne.  ‘There now,’ says I, ’Majesty, I tould ye how id would be, but you’d never stop until you got yourself hurt.’—­’Give us your fist, Dan,’ says he, ’I’m not a bit the worse of the fall; you’re a good man, an’ I’m not able for you.’—­’That’s no disgrace,’ says I, ‘for it’s few that is; but iv I had you in thrainin’ for six months, I’d make another man ov ye;’ an’ wid that we fell a dhrinkin’ again, ever till we didn’t lave a dhrop in the bottle; an’ then I thought it was time to go, so up I got.—­’Dan,’ says he, ’before you lave me I’ll make you a knight, to show I have no spite again ye for the fall.’—­’Oh,’ says I, ’for the matter ov that, I’m sure ye’re too honourable a gintleman to hould spite for what was done in fair play, an’ you know your reverence wouldn’t be easy until you had a thrial ov me.’—­’Say no more about id, Dan,’ says he, laughin’, ’bud kneel down upon your bended knees.’  So down I kneeled.—­’Now,’ says he, ’ye wint down on your marrow bones plain Dan, but I give ye lave to get up Sir Dan Dann’ly, Esquire.’—­’Thank your honour,’ says I, ‘an’ God mark you to grace wherever you go.’  So wid that we shook hands, an’ away I wint.  Talk of your kings and prences, the Prence Ragin’ is the finest Prence ever I dhrunk wid.”

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I’D BE A PARODY.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

  I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny
    On some little song with a popular tune,
  Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
    And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon. 
  I’d never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
    (Who cares for sense at St. James’s in June?)
  I’d be a Parody, made by a ninny,
    And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.

  Oh! could I pick tip a thought or a stanza,
    I’d take a flight on another bard’s wings,
  Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
    Laugh at his harp—­and then pilfer its strings! 
  When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
    A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings! 
  Oh, never mind, I will pick up a stanza,
    Laugh at his harp—­and then pilfer its strings!

  What though you tell me each metrical puppy
    Might make of such parodies two pair a day;
  Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy
    Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:—­
  Ladder of fame! if man can’t reach thy top, he
    Is right to sing just as high up as he may;
  I’d be a Parody, made by a puppy,
    Who makes of such parodies two pair a day!

Sharpe’s Magazine.

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THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.