THE BONFIRE AT TEMPLE-BAR.

Sung by a party of merry fellows, dressed in greasy crimson and yellow satin, as they lean out of the window of a Fleet-street tavern, May, 1660.

WITH a flagon in each hand,
And a bowl before us,

While the barrel's running gold,
Cavaliers, the chorus !

Lest misfortune enter here,

Let us now debar her,

Tossing off Canary cups

With a Sassarara!

Through the lattice see the west
Like a burning ruby;

Who to-night goes sober hence
Shall be dubbed a booby.
Redder than that core of fire

Flash the gathered torches,
Blaze the bonfires in the streets
Round a thousand porches.

Full cups round, my hearts of steel,
Lads of trusty mettle;

Split the chair and break the form,
Chop in two the settle;

So the bonfire, roof-tree high,
Leap up to the steeple,

While with waving hat and swords
We address the people.

Burn the books of crop-eared Prynn,

Make the Roundheads shiver;
Give a shout to scare the rogues
Right across the river.

Blow the organ trumpet loud,
Set the mad bells clashing,
Redden all the stones of Cheap
With the wine-cup's splashing.

Traitors who to-night retire
Cheek unflushed and sober,
I'll drench with this metal can
Of the brown October.
Drain the tun, yes, every drop,
Then split up the barrel,
Beat the pewter till it's flat,
Chorus to the carol.

Cavaliers upon your knees,

Here's a health to heroes

;

Jenkin, when I give the sign,
Fire the patarreros.

Blow the trumpets till they burst,
Welcome to the Stuart,

Slit his weasand who will dare

To say he's not a true heart.

Lift the stone up, tear Noll out,
Lop his head and swing it
From the triple Tyburn-tree,
Where with groans we bring it.
Shake old Whitehall with the roar
Till the windows clatter,
Then the bones of Oliver
On the dunghill scatter.
Open throw the prison doors,
Free the wounded troopers-
When the Brewer's sword is snapt,

Shall the brave be droopers ?
Lead them out into the sun,

Let them feel the breezes;
Crowd around them with the cup,
For their life-blood freezes.
Even let the crosses red

Be for once forgotten;
Let the dying hear us shout
Ere he's black and rotten;

Round the plague-pit cry and sing,

Let the wine elate us;

Wine's the balm for blain and boil,
The real Mithridates.

Now they grind the Tyburn axe,
Sing the song of Wigan,
So it pierce the prison-bars

While the graves are digging.

Vane turns pale to hear the hiss
Of a thousand-headed adder,
While his sour face, black and calm,
Makes the rabble madder.

Fire the muskets all at once,
Snap off every pistol,
Wave the glasses in the sun,
And then smash the crystal;
Drag the dusty maypole out,
Ring it round with blossom;
Throw your caps into the air,
As for banners toss 'em.
Rear the pole, and let us dance
Hand-in-hand in chorus;
Bid the piper blow his best,
Strutting on before us.
Bang the cans upon the board,
Cadence to the roaring

Of the crowds who with the Rump
Down Fleet-street are pouring.

Swing me in my sword-belt up
If I do not clamour

Louder than the merry din

Of the pewterer's hammer.

Thin-cheeked debtors from the Fleet,
Red-eyed, hungry-hearted,

Cry for very joy to think

Red-nosed Noll departed.

Wave the flag until it split,
Break up all the benches,

Round the fires that roast the Rump
Kiss the laughing wenches.
Fling broad pieces to the crowd,
Let them fight and trample,
Every starving caitiff soon
Will have counters ample.
Tories! hearts of steel and gold,
Flash your swords to heaven,
Now the Brewer's dead and gone
With his bitter leaven.
Shout until the steeples shake,
And the bells are swinging,
Every bell in every house
Should be set a-ringing.

Ring from Cheapside unto Paul's,
Right to Piccadilly,

Wave the flags from Temple-bar
To where Holborn's hilly;
From the Barbican to Bow,
Up the Strand to Charing,
All along the Surrey side
Are the bonfires flaring.
Gracious-street to Crooked-lane,
Eastcheap to Old Jewry,
Whitefriars, too, is all alive,
Ram-alley shouts in fury.
At the Compter window see
All the rogues are staring,
The very gaoler's wakened up
By the torches flaring.

Right from Stratford to the Thames,

Then away to Clapham,

Bring the war-drums, strain them tight,

Then with cudgel rap 'em;

Clash the brass and raise a din,

Maddening the Quakers,

Leave beside the grave the dead,
All ye undertakers.

Let the baker's cheek grow red,
And the butcher's redder,
Make the blacksmith leave his forge,
Smithfield hind his wedder;
Carpenters the coffin leave,

Half made do for traitors,

If a Crophead dare to frown,
Hang him in his gaiters.

Now then drink till we grow blind,

And our voices fail us,

When the spirits of the wine

All at once assail us.

Then let jug and table fall,
Pile the cups who love us;
Let the topers sober left
Sing a dirge above us.

Feb.-VOL. CVI. NO. CCCCXXII.

P

THE ALCHEMIST'S DAUGHTER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF E. W. CONTESSA.

BY MRS. BUSHBY.

PART II.

THREE years had thus quietly passed since Wolf's sudden disappearance, without any particular event taking place; Maria's only companions were Susanna, her child-and the remembrance of his father; her only amusement, when the weather allowed of it, was a walk to a lonely farm-house not far from the city.

She was sitting there one day on a bank near the garden, while little Rudolf ran back and forwards, and brought her wild flowers, which she formed into wreaths for him, when he came running to her with a lily on its stalk. "How did you get this pretty flower ?" Maria asked, in some

surprise.

"Yon man there plucked it for me," replied the child.

Maria looked in the direction he pointed, and observed a young sunburnt face, with black hair streaming in disorder over it, peeping through the neighbouring bushes. She became alarmed, and sprang up to go.

"Stay, Madonna, stay!" cried the young stranger. "You have no cause for fear." He came forward with his arms crossed on his breast,

and stood before her in an humble attitude.

Maria gazed at him in surprise. He had a tall, slender figure, and seemed to be scarcely past the years of boyhood.

"Will you permit me to approach a little nearer to you?" he asked, in a gentle voice. Maria smiled. Then, coming forward, he cast himself on his knees before her, and said:

"In my native land there is a statue of the Holy Virgin, in which she is represented with a lily on its stalk in her hand. As a child I used often to pray before that image. I saw you sitting among flowers, and that the lily should not be wanting, I plucked one in the adjacent garden."

"Who are you?" asked Maria, colouring and embarrassed. what brings you here?"

"And

"My name is Antonio," he replied, smiling. "My good fortune brought me here. I have found what was seeking-yourself-and no one else you are

-Maria

;

Susanna just then made her appearance, coming towards them Antonio sprang up, seized one of Maria's wreaths of flowers, and cried, "This is the olive-branch which I shall carry home-all grief shall now be at an end. Farewell, Madonna-and when you are happy think of me!" He disappeared instantly amidst the bushes; Maria looked in amazement after him, and on her return home, as she was standing at the window thinking over the extraordinary occurrence, she fancied she perceived him in the twilight gliding slowly past her house.

A presentiment took possession of her mind, which, often as she had been disappointed, and blasted as her hopes had been, she could not dismiss-this secret feeling it was, perhaps, which determined her to walk

again next day to the farm-house. But the morning rose dark and gloomy, the weather had changed, and a heavy, unbroken rain continued all day.

It was evening, and Maria was alone with her little boy, who on that day, contrary to his usual habits, was very unwilling to go to bed. She had gone for a moment into an adjoining room, and had left the child playing in the parlour, when he suddenly came running after her, seized her hand, and cried out joyfully, "Come, mother, come-my father is here!" "Of what are you

A thrill of delight shot through Maria's soul. dreaming, child?" she asked. But the little boy pulled her lustily into the other room, and she beheld standing there a tall man, of noble appearance, and richly dressed. "This is not your father, my boy!" she cried. And turning to the stranger, she asked, politely, "Whom do you seek here? Can we render you any service ?"

But approaching her with open arms, he cried, in a voice of deep emotion, "Maria, do you really not know me?" She immediately recognised Wolf's voice. The present and the past-joy and sorrowall rushed together into her mind, and agitated her so much, that her heart throbbed wildly, her knees shook, and she would have fallen to the ground had Wolf not sprung forward and caught her in his arms. "Maria !" he exclaimed, sadly,

sight of me ?"

66 can your pure eyes not endure the

Maria raised her eyes, looked at him, laid her head upon his breast, and burst into tears. "You have been long absent," she murmured, softly.

"Ah! why do you remind me of this ?" he cried. "It has been a terrible time-all this past period; I have struggled through it as if I had been fighting a tiger. But heaven opens on me again, and a new life is beginning."

"You see now, mother, I was right," interrupted Rudolf. "I knew he was my father. Somebody told me last night that he would come today."

"And that lovely boy ?" cried Wolf. "Maria-that boy?"

"He is your own," replied Maria, in a low voice, and blushing deeply. Wolf, on hearing this, caught up the child in his arms, held him high in the air, then kissed his rosy mouth and his fair forehead, while tears streamed over his dark cheeks. He folded the mother and the child in the same embrace his eyes wandered from one to the other, as if he could not satisfy himself by gazing at them, and as if intoxicated by his happiness.

The child smiled gaily, and, devoid of all fear or uneasiness, flung his little arms round the necks of his father and mother.

"Oh ye angels!" exclaimed Wolf. "Ye must and shall lead me back to my lost paradise. God's having vouchsafed to me this child, is a token that I shall be received again into His grace."

Susanna came in at that moment, but neither did she know Wolf again; for, even more than his proud carriage, his rich dress and his sunburnt features, thick whiskers and moustaches upon his cheeks and upper lip quite altered his appearance.

When the first tumults of joy and surprise had somewhat subsided,