Julius Caesar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
    Came by water,—­he couldn’t come by land;
  And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turned their backs on,
    And all for the sake of our island. 
        O, what a snug little island! 
        They’d all have a touch at the island! 
      Some were shot dead, some of them fled,
        And some stayed to live on the island.

  Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman,
    Cried, “Drat it, I never liked my land. 
  It would be much more handy to leave this Normandy,
    And live on your beautiful island.” 
        Says he, “’Tis a snug little island;
        Sha’n’t us go visit the island?”
      Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump,
        And he kicked up a dust in the island.

  But party deceit helped the Normans to beat;
    Of traitors they managed to buy land;
  By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been licked,
    Had they stuck to the king of their island. 
        Poor Harold, the king of our island! 
        He lost both his life and his island! 
      That’s all very true:  what more could he do? 
        Like a Briton he died for his island!

  The Spanish armada set out to invade—­a,
    ’Twill sure, if they ever come nigh land. 
  They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess,
    And take their full swing on the island. 
        O the poor queen of the island! 
        The Dons came to plunder the island;
      But snug in her hive the queen was alive,
        And “buzz” was the word of the island.

  These proud puffed-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes
    Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land,
  When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck
    And stoop to the lads of the island! 
        O, for the ships of the island! 
        The good wooden walls of the island;
      Devil or Don, let them come on;
        And see how they’d come off the island!

  Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept time,
    In each saying, “This shall be my land”;
  Should the “Army of England,” or all it could bring, land,
    We’d show ’em some play for the island. 
        We’d fight for our right to the island;
        We’d give them enough of the island;
      Invaders should just—­bite once at the dust,
        But not a bit more of the island.

THOMAS DIBDIN.

* * * * *

THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL.

  He tripped up the steps with a bow and a smile,
  Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,
  A rose at his button-hole that afternoon—­
  ’Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.

  Then shrugging his shoulders, he looked at the man
  With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran
  Through the crowd, who below, were all pushing to see
  The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.