Old Judge Brooke with his double-chins Sighing over his hoarded claret And sending the last of his cherished bins To the hospital-doctors with “I can spare it But if you give it to some damned layman Who doesn’t know brandy from licorice-water And sports a white ribbon, by fire and slaughter, I’ll hang the lot of you higher than Haman!

The Wingate cellars are nearly bare But Miss Louisa is doing her hair In the latest style of Napoleon’s court. (A blockade-runner brought the report,