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"Now come hither, old Max," Sir Rupert cried,

"And sing us a merry song, Or tell us of Siegfried's blooming bride, Or the priest who was plunged in the Rhine's cold tide

For indulging his wishes wrong.”

The old man sung a sentimental strain,
A song of love, its wishes, hopes, and fears;
And while he sung his colour came again,

blazed brightly as in former years,
When it was quickly kindled by disdain,
Nor dimmed, as often now, by bitter tears.
These very words, with true poetic fire,
He once for glory sung, but now for hire !

very room !

And, while he sings, they vanish from his sight

The knights, the ladies gay, the
Once more a youth, with eyes and prospects bright,

He sings to her, now mould'ring in the tomb,
Ere age and poverty's overwhelming blight
From life's first blushing flowers had robbed the

bloom. Sweet season, long expected, quickly past, In youth love's fire too fiercely burns to last !

The minstrel's song was no sooner done,
Than 'twas plain that his lay had extinguished the fun,
And yawning fearfully, one by one,

They vanished knights and ladies.
The lights were put out, not a single “glim”
Shed its ray o'er the walls of that castle grim;
And the banqueting hall was soon as dim

As 'tis said to be in Hades.

My story thus forward, I now must relate
Some previous details concerning the fate
Of that famous young hero, Sir Blutwurst the Great,

Of whom I've just made mention;

And so, to prevent the smallest mystery,
Or the thread of my story from getting a twist awry,
To his death, which took place ere the date of my


I must call my readers' attention.
Blutwurst and Rupert were two pretty men
As ever were sketched by pencil or pen;
Together they hunt, shoot, fish, frolic, and gamble,
In short, to dispense with a longer preamble,

They so loved each other,

That Corsican Brother, Or Damon, or Pythias, or Siamese twin, Ne'er cared for his friend, or his kith, or his kin, As did Blutwurst for Rupert: they ne'er knew division, But were like Box and Cox in a German edition. Mr. Coleridge says, “ Truth, that exists in the young, Too often is killed by a whispering tongue;" And this proved the case between Blutwurst and Ru

pert. The former, perhaps, in his language was too pert; For having committed some irregularities, Which he called "peccadilloes," but others “bar

barities," Sir Rupert declined to subscribe to some charities Which Blutwurst advised as a species of “ hedge.' Then the latter blazed out;the : 6 thin end of the

wedge' Being thus once inserted the matter grew serious.

Each spake words of high disdain

And insult to his heart's best brother “ Just repeat those words again !"

" You're a scoundrel !" “You're another !" With curses and oaths, to repeat which would weary

us, Till from furious words they proceeded to blows. Who first drew his rapier nobody knows; But Hans, the old seneschal, sitting down stairs, Heard a shriek then a plunge in the river, he swears;

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And going up found Rupert, all haggard and wan,
Who stated that Blutwurst had started for Bonn,
And requested that thither his bag be sent on.

This story gained ground,

Till the body was found A great distance off-in fact, down at Dusseldorf, Whence the horrified finder all hurriedly bustled off To tell Blutwurst's parents the terrible news. A coroner's inquest was held on the body, Where, after much talking and more Hollands toddy, Much anger, much squabbling, and dreadful abuse, They found that, "returning home, muddled with wine, The deceased had been murdered and flung in the

Rhine, By some persons unknown, with malicious design !” To Rupert no blame e'er attached in the matter; Poor Blutwurst was called mad, “as mad as a hatter,"

For drinking so much as to fall from his perch. And now, if you please, we'll return to the castle, Where I think we shall find that, fatigued by the wassail, With two small exceptions, each master and vassal

May safely be reckoned as “fast as a church." Fair Margaret sits at her toilette-glass,

And rests her head on her snow-white hand; Through her throbbing brain what visions pass, As over her shoulders there falls a mass

Of curls, ne'er touched by the crimping brand;
She thinks of Sir Rupert's attentions that night,
And of them, too, she thinks less with pleasure than

For his great leering eyes,

Seem before her to rise,
And she looks o'er her shoulder, and shivers and sighs,
For the room is so large, and the pictures so grim,
And the wind howls so loud, and her light burns so dim,
And she sees in the mirror, not herself, but him.

Yes! he kneels at her side ;

Says he wont be denied;
And calls her « his dear little duck of a bride!!

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His utt'rance is thick, his cravat is untied,
And his face is as red as a new Murray's Guide ;
His gait is unsteady, his manner so rude,
It's plain to perceive that Sir Rupert is “screwid."
But he touches his heart, and he turns up his

And by language and gesture most earnestly tries
To convince her that ne'er from his knees will he rise,
Till to wed on the morrow she freely complies.

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If you've seen Mrs. Kean

In that excellent scene
Which she with Mr. Wigan so forcibly plays,
In Boucicault's comedy, “Love in a Maze,"
When her scorn for her tempter, her love for her

In language theatrical, “bring down the house,
You can fancy how Margaret, deeply enraged,
And backed up by the feeling that she was engaged
To Otto Von Rosen, the dearest of men,
Rejected Sir Rupert at once, there and then.

In vain he implored,

Declared himself “floored,"
Wept by turns and entreated, then ranted and roared;

She still was disdainful,

And said, “it was painful
To witness the friend of her brother so lowered."
Till, maddened with fury, he seized her, and said
“Be mine, or thou'rt numbered this night with the

No maiden has yet refused Rupert the Red !"

That instant there rang through the castle a shriek,
Compared with which e'en Madame Celeste's are weak;
The chamber-doors fell with a terrible crash,
And with, under his left arm, a yet gory gash,

Come forth from his grave,

Stood Blutwurst the brave,
Who'd arrived just in time his poor sister to save.
Sir Rupert gazed at him a second or more,
Made one strong exclamation, then sunk on the floor.

From every side a swarming tide of vassals pour amain, And, struggling with each other, the fatal room they

gain, And quickly entering, they find fair Margaret in a

swoon, They cut the lace that holds her base must be the

man who'd own That such a garment now exists; with water from

Cologne They sprinkle her, and she revives, and sweetly smiles

once more, And points to what appears a heap of ashes on the

floor! Alas ! 'twas so; the gallant knight, the former man of

mark," Is fitted now for naught but dust for Stapleton or

Darke; All shrivelled into nothingness a horrid mass he lay, His projects vanished into smoke, himself a yard of


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And never from that hour has anything been seen, Except the ruin pointed out to Robinson or Green, That e'er pertained to him of all the Rhenish clans the

head, To him, the hero of my song, Sir Rupert called the


(From " Dirth and Metre."-F. Warne and Co.)



HENRY FIELDING. (Henry Fielding was born at Sharpham Park, near Glastonbury, Somerset, on the 22nd April, 1707. He was of high birth-his father, a grandson of the Earl of Denbigh, being a general in the army, and his mother the daughter of a judge. He received the rudiments of bis education at home, under a private tutor, the

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