There's the station; your tickets, step out, look alive! Here's a 'bus takes us all. Do you know where to drive? Dr. Prossodie's, Winchester House! (Copyright.-Contributed.) SIR RUPERT THE RED. EDMUND H. YATES. [Edmund Hodgson Yates, born about the year 1828, is the son of the late Mr. Yates, the eminent actor, and some time partner with the late Charles Mathews in the lesseeship of the Adelphi Theatre. His mother was the gifted actress so well known to the last generation of play-goers. Mr. Yates, who holds a situation in the General Post-office, is the present editor of the "Temple Bar Magazine," and one of the literary staff of the Star newspaper. After the decease of Mr. Albert Smith, he occupied the Egyptian Hall, in which he gave an entertainment for a few months somewhat after the style of his predecessor; but "entertaining" was evidently not his forte. As a novelist he has succeeded better; but a propensity to indulge in personalities, interesting only to a literary clique, and which can be of no permanent value, detracts from the general interest of his writings. His last two works, "Broken to Harness" and "Running the Gauntlet," have been read with avidity by the subscribers to circulating libraries, and hold their own among the novels of the day.] SIR RUPERT THE RED was as gallant a knight Or broke an antagonist's head. Full tall was his stature, full stalwart his frame, Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old, Thick were its walls, and dark and cold The swift Rhine ran below them. Full handy to Rupert the Red was the Rhine: But stories will spread, howe'er you may try The bell ne'er was rung, and no stranger implored If he kindly would grant a night's shelter and board? son. While his former bad temper began to grow worse, curse; But his feelings I'll try to describe in the verse Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed, Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled; Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep Saying "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more, Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore, Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with many a qualm— Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its inodel farm? Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard, And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared; Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews, When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes. But, like mine, thy day is over-thou art blunt and I'm disgraced! Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till nightNo person could please him, no conduct was rightTill his very retainers grew furious quite, And determined to quit his service. For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans; While the groom from York told the cook from France "He warn't going to be led such a precious dance In a house turned topsy-turvies." Oh, "the castled crag of Drachenfels," Who leave the squares of Belgravia, Though the last "don't like the flavour." But Drachenfels was a different sight, On such a night, from his own red room, He strained his weary eyeballs, but well was he repaid And Sir Rupert's heart grew lighter, and his brightly beamed; eye more For many a day had passed away since he a prize had won, And no hand had touched his bell save that of poursuivant or dun. "Now haste ye," he cried, "throw open the gate, Then three little pages, with hair combed straight, Ran off to the warden tall. The drawbridge falls, and the company cross, Much thought of in childhood, by schoolboys called "prime," When young Hopeful's small pockets And eyebrows are burnt, and arms torn out of soc kets When you're begged (and the tyrants take care you do not) Ne'er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot. The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow- At Old Drury Lane, In the opening part of a grand Christmas Pantomime, Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o' rhyme Please to fancy my herald does just the same now; clears, And he twists his mustachios right up to his ears, "Sir Rupert the Red, То I have sped From a dame with whose brother you've conquered and bled, Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality, No refusal I fear When her name you once hear; Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter 1 crave, Is Margaret, the sister of Blutworst the Brave!" Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied, Whom I loved as a son, For whose tragical end I have ne'er ceased to grieve." Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said, "Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread; Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshau sers, Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers, |