One really shivers,

And fairly quivers,

To think of the treatment of Grey and Rivers

And Hastings and Vaughn and other good livers,
All suddenly sent, at the tap of a drum,

From the Kingdom of England to Kingdom-Come!
Of Buckingham doomed to a tragical end
For being the tyrant's particular friend;
Of Clarence who died, it is mournful to think,
Of wine that he was n't permitted to drink!
And the beautiful babies of royal blood,

Two little White Roses both nipt in the bud!

And silly Queen Anne, what sorrow it cost her

(And served her right!) for daring to foster
The impudent suit of this Richard of Gloster;
Who, instead of conferring a royal gratuity,
A dower, or even a decent Anne-uity,

Just gave her a portion of -- something or other
That made her as quiet as Pharaoh's mother!

Ah Richard! you 're going it quite too fast;
Your doom is slow, but it's coming at last;
Your bloody crown

Will topple down,

And you'll be done uncommonly brown!
Your foes are thick,

My daring Dick,

And RICHMOND, a prince, and a regular brick,
Is after you now with a very sharp stick!

On Bosworth field the armies to-night

Are pitching their tents in each other's sight;
And to-morrow! to-morrow! they're going to fight!
And now King Richard has gone to bed;

But e'en in his sleep

He cannot keep

The past or the future out of his head.
In his deep remorse

Each mangled corse

Of all he had slain, — or, what was worse,
Their ghosts, came up in terrible force,
And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse,
Until, with a scream,

He woke from his dream,

And shouted aloud for "another horse!"

Perhaps you may think, my little dear,
King Richard's request was rather queer;
But I'll presently make it exceedingly clear:
THE ROYAL SLEEPER WAS OVERFED!

I mean to say that, against his habit,
He'd eaten Welsh-rabbit

With very bad whiskey on going to bed.
I've had the Night-Mare with horrible force,
And much prefer a different horse!

But see! the murky night is gone!

The Morn is up, and the Fight is on!

The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging,
On the right, on the left, the battle is raging;
King Richard is down!

Will he save his crown?

There's a crack in it now!-- he's beginning to bleed!
Aha! King Richard has lost his steed!

(At a moment like this 't is a terrible need!)
He shouts aloud with thundering force,
And offers a very high price for a horse,
But it's all in vain, the battle is done, —

The day is lost! - and the day is won!

And RICHMOND is King! and RICHARD's a corse!

MORAL.

Remember, my boy, that moral enormities
Are apt to attend corporeal deformities.
Whatever you have, or whatever you lack,
Beware of getting a crook in your back;

And, while you 're about it, I'd very much rather
You'd grow tall and superb, i. e. copy your father!

Don't learn to be cruel, pray let me advise,
By torturing beetles and bluebottle-flies,
Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes.

If you ever should marry, remember to wed
A handsome, plump, modest, sweet-spoken, well-bred,
And sensible maiden of twenty, — instead

Of a widow whose husband is recently dead!

If you'd shun in your naps those horrible Incubi, Beware what you eat, and be careful what drink you

buy ;

Or else you may see, in your sleep's perturbations,
Some old and uncommonly ugly relations,

Who'll be very apt to disturb your nutations
By unpleasant allusions and rude observations !

OTHELLO, THE MOOR.

OMANCES of late are so wretchedly poor,

Here goes for the old one: - Othello, the Moor;

A warrior of note, and by no means a boor,

Though the skin on his face

Was as black as the ace

Of spades; or (a simile nearer the case)
Say, black as the Deuce; or black as a brace
Of very black cats in a very dark place!

That's the German idea;

But how he could be a

Regular negro don't seem very clear;
For Horace, you know,

A great while ago,

Put a sentiment forth which we all must agree to:
"Hic niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto!"
(A nigger's a rascal that one ought to see to.)
I rather, in sooth,

Think it nearer the truth

To take the opinion of young Mr. Booth,
Who makes his Othello

A grim-looking fellow

Of a color compounded of lamp-black and yellow.

Now Captain Othello, a true son of Mars,
The foe being vanquished, returned from the wars,
All covered with ribbons, and garters, and stars,
Not to mention a score of magnificent scars;
And calling, one day,

In a neighborly way,

On Signor Brabantio, one of the men
Who figured in Venice as Senator then,

Was invited to tell

Of all that befell

Himself and his friends while campaigning so well,
From the time of his boyhood till now he was grown
The greatest of Captains that Venice had known.
As a neighbor should do,

He ran it quite through,

(I would n't be bail it was all of it true) Recounting, with ardor, such trophies and glories, Among Ottoman rebels and Cyprian tories,

Not omitting a parcel of cock-and-bull stories, -
That he quite won the heart of the Senator's daughter,
Who, like most of the sex, had a passion for slaughter;
And was wondrously bold

By brilliant romancers, who picture in gold

What, in its own hue, you 'd be shocked to behold.

Now Captain Othello, who never had known a
Young lady so lovely as "Fair Desdemona,"
Not even his patroness, Madam Bellona, -
Was delighted, one day,

At hearing her say,

Of all men in the world he'd the charmingest way
Of talking to women; and if any one should,
(Tho' she did n't imagine that any one would,
For where, to be sure, was another who could?)
But if- and suppose· a lover came to her,
And told her his story, 't would certainly woo her.
With so lucid a hint,

The dickens were in 't,

If he could n't have read her as easy as print;
And thus came of course, - but as to the rest,-
The billing and cooing I leave to be guessed,-