Chorus.

  “Lack-a-day, well-a-day!” then let us sing,
  And mourn for the loss of this good little King.

  His taste, for a monarch, was queer,
    But his motto was “live and let live, sir,”
  He was thirsty, and fond of good beer,
    Which his subjects were happy to give, sir;
  He levied his taxes himself,
    A quart or a pint for his dinner,
  No exciseman went snacks in the pelf,
    No clerks had this jolly old sinner.

Chorus.

  “Lack-a-day, well-a-day!” then let us sing,
  And mourn for the loss of this good little King.

* * * * *

  Except just by way of a lark,
    His militia he never would call out,
  He then made them shoot at a mark
    Till they had shot all their powder and ball out.

Chorus.

  “Lack-a-day, well-a-day!” then let us sing,
  And mourn for the loss of this good little King.

  To his neighbours he always was kind,
    He never extended his boundaries,
  For disputes and contentions, I find,
    He never saw any just ground arise: 
  Pleasure’s code being his statute law
    He ne’er caused a tear to be shed, sir,
  Though I swear not a dry eye I saw,
    When his subjects first heard he was dead, sir.

Chorus.

  “Lack-a-day, well-a-day!” well might they sing,
  When they mourned the sad loss of their good little King.

  His portrait you must have observed,
    In remarkably good preservation,
  For his eminent virtues deserved
    You’ll allow, a conspicuous station: 
  “The King’s Head” still continues his name,
    Where full often the people on holidays
  As they tipple, still talk of his name,
    In lamenting the end of his jolly days.

Chorus.

  “Lack a-day, well-a-day!” thus do they sing. 
  And mourn for the loss of their good little King.

H.

* * * * *

TO A LADY WHO SAID SHE WAS THE SAME AGE AS HIMSELF.

From the French of Beranger.

(For the Mirror.)

  Our ages are the same, you say,
    But know that love believes it not;
  The Fates, a wager I would lay,
    Our tangled threads shared out by lot;
  What part to each they did assign
    The world, fair dame, can plainly see;
  The Spring and Summer days were thine,
    Autumn and Winter came to me.  H.

* * * * *

ENGLISH BALLAD SINGING.

(For the Mirror.)

The minstrels were once a great and flourishing body in England; but their dignity being interwoven with the illusory splendour of feudal institutions, declined on the advance of moral cultivation:  they became in time vulgar mountebanks and jugglers, and in the reign of Elizabeth were suppressed as rogues and vagabonds.  Banished from the highways they betook themselves to alehouses—­followed the trade of pipers and fiddlers—­and minstrelsy was no longer known in England.