The incident of physicking the royal family at Yaoorie by way of leave-taking, is only equalled by the following oddity:—­“The captain of the palm oil brig, Elizabeth, now in the Calabar river, actually white-washed his crew from head to foot, while they were sick with fever and unable to protect themselves; his cook suffered so much in the operation, that the lime totally deprived him of the sight of one of his eyes, and rendered the other of little service to him.”

The account of the Travellers’ visit to Fernando Po, in the third volume, will be read with interest, as indeed will every page of the whole narrative; and to this commendation of the Messrs. Landers’ Journal of their past adventures we cheerfully add our best wishes for the success of their future enterprize.

* * * * *

SONGS OF THE GIPSIES.

Among the musical novelties of the day, we notice with much pleasure, a pretty volume of Lyrics, written by Mr. Moncrieff, the music by Mr. S. Nelson.  The poetry is throughout sparkling and characteristic, and “an Historical Introduction on the origin and customs of Gipsies,” prefixed to the Songs, is so attractive as to be likely to share the popularity of the piano-forte accompaniments.  It is written with considerable care and neatness, and the peculiar tact requisite to produce an interesting paper on a dry subject.

We are only enabled to quote from the lyrics, an opening carol, as

  Liberty, liberty! 
      Search the world round,
  ’Tis with the Gipsy
      Alone thou art found. 
  Then in the gay greenwood
      We worship thee now,
  The free, oh the free! 
      Still live under the bough.

  Trarah!  Trarah! 
      Hark, the deep dingles ring,
  Free hearts, with the bird
      And the deer are on wing;
  Joy claims in the greenwood
      The Gipsy’s glad vow,
  The blithe, oh the blithe! 
      Still live under the bough.

And the first song entire.

THE GIPSY QUEEN.

  Oh! ’tis I am the Gipsy Queen! 
    And where is there queen like me,
  That can revel upon the green,
    In boundless liberty? 
  What though my cheek be brown,
    And wild my raven hair,
  A red cloth hood my crown,
    And my sceptre the wand I bear! 
  Yet, ’tis I am the Gipsy Queen!

  With my kingdom I’m well content,
    Though my realm’s but the hawthorn glade;
  And my palace a tatter’d tent
    Beneath the willow’s shade: 
  Though my banquet I’m forc’d to make
    On haws and berries store,
  And the game that by chance we take
    From some neighbouring hind’s barn door! 
  Yet, ’tis I am the Gipsy Queen!

  ’Tis true I must ply my art,
    And share in my subjects’ toils;
  But of all their gains I’ve part,
    I’ve the choice of all their spoils;
  And, by love and duty led,
    Ere from my jet black eye
  One sad tear should be shed,
    A thousand hearts would die! 
  For, ’tis I am the Gipsy Queen!