And what want filling-are our front ranks here—
I' faith there's plenty of us in the rear ;-(cheers)
Troops of all grades, from those who wield the rod
Of rule imperial, to the awkward squad;

Still have our soldiers one great fault, you know,-
They charge the manager, and not the foe ;-(cheering)
They're regulars at that,-howe'er deficient

In some slight points, in charging they're efficient;
Then, gentle paymasters, extend your aid,

Or it's all over with our Scotch Brigade.—(Applause) (A long pause.)

What, not a man? ah me! they won't be had;
You and your drum may both walk off, my lad.
(Exit Drummer)

What's to be done?---I ne'er was fixed before;
Egad I have it--- raise a female corps.

The "Lords" wo'n't come; let's try the Ladies then,---
If once they give the word, the gentlemen

Will all fall in; with female favour blessed,

Our ranks again will be well filled and dressed.—

(Cheers)

For, Ladies, true it is, whate'er betide 'em,
Men are dull bargains when you're not beside 'em ;-

(cheers) They stride and swagger, think the world their own; But if, without you, left in it alone,

66

I think, my friends, the "Lords of the Creation,"
Would one and all send in their resignation;---(applause)
At least we find, where you are, there they roam,
And here they're all abroad, when you're " At Home."
'Tis your engagements, Ladies, knock up mine,
A dinner party sadly thins our line.
But the unkindest cut, by far, of all,
Is, when you fire off a Fancy Ball;
Both pit and boxes then are "ruinato,"

And e'en "the gods themselves abandon Cato."—(shouts)
Then, Ladies, don't refuse me; let me gain

Your fav'ring smiles, like sunshine after rain ;
Beam on our efforts like the morning light
Chasing the gloom of our preceding night;
Boxes and pit will come, if you are there,
And to Olympus, back our gods repair.

Cheered by these hopes your Sergeant keeps the field; Tho' sorely pressed, he yet disdains to yield ;-(cheers) Still trusting, ere he finally departs,

Yet in his day to play you many parts. "Attention" ever, in his wish to please,

Till Time shall say "Old Murray, stand at ease."

The Manager retired amidst tremendous cheering, which was continued for some minutes after the curtain dropped.

The Observer of Tuesday states, that the Address was written by Mr. Murray himself, on Monday forenoon, "in the course of an hour, and in the midst of a thousand other avocations."

THE DRUNKARD'S TREE.

THE
Sin of

DRUNKENNESS

Expels Reason, drowns Memory,
Distempers the Body, defaces Beauty,
Diminishes Strength, corrupts the blood,
Inflames the Liver, weakens the Brain,
Turns men into walking Hospitals, causes internal,
External, and incurable Wounds; is a Witch to the Senses,
A Devil to the Soul, a Thief to the Purse, the
Beggar's Companion, a Wife's woe and Children's
Sorrow; makes Man become a Beast and

A self-murderer, who drinks to others'

Good health, and robs himself of
His own! Nor is this all;

It exposes to the

TAME HERON.

A FINE specimen, though a this year's bird, of what the country people call a "lang-necked heron," was caught a few weeks ago in a salmon net at the Bowscaur, while busy devouring the tacksman's fish. The culprit, we believe, made a stout resistance, and defended himself bravely with his formidable bill; but it would not do. Few fishermen like to be forestalled, before even they can bring their goods to market, and as his claws had got entangled in the meshes of the net, he was seized, pinioned, and carried home, as the most appropriate punishment for his poaching propensities. Shortly after this, the bird was brought to the King's Arms Inn, gifted to Mr. Frazer, and allowed to hop about the stable-yard, associating, in the course of his perambulations, sometimes with the pigs, sometimes with the poultry. By degrees he attached himself chiefly to the dung-stead, where he reigns at this moment cock of the walk, to the great displeasure of the curs, and the sparrows. The game he displays in every rencontre, inspires respect wherever he struts, and when a dog dares to bark at or otherwise molest him, a single peck from his long bill, sends the enemy ascampering with his tail between his feet. But of all the animals, wild or tame, that frequent the yard of our principal inn, the sparrows have cause to dread him most. To the pickles of corn mixed with the dung, they have long claimed a sort of vested right, and while nibbling up these, the heron, who is a sportsman in every sense of the word, singles out his bird, and not only pounces on, but gobbles up the quarry before, as the hostlers phrase it, you could say Jack Robison. His organs of hearing are remarkably acute, and we have seen him stretch forth his long neck, and turn his eyes this way and that, merely from the almost imperceptible noise which the birds' wings were making in the air. A more dexterous hawker we never saw; concealment by crouching is carefully studied; distance, too, is calculated with the greatest nicety; and the sparrows, from the caution they now observe, seem to be aware that their numbers are getting thinner and thinner. From the first, he

seemed fond of this sport, and still pursues it eagerly? though a plentiful meal of fish is always at his service' and from these circumstances we are led to infer that the heron has two strings to his bow, and poaches on land as well as in burns and arms of the sea, while roaming unrestrained in a state of nature. In talking over the subject with an experienced sportsman, he mentioned, among other things, that though eagles frequently attack herons, they often come off second best. If the heron is approached unawares, death is almost sure to ensue; but if the battle, as is usual, takes place in the air, the eagle uniformly tries to get uppermost. But as the heron on his part strains every nerve to elude the snare which is thus laid for him, it is beautiful to see the feathered belligerents "screwing the heavens till lost in the blue." Occasionally the eagle attempts to stoop too soon, and as he cannot pause, wheel, and then strike-that is, after the descent is commenced-the heron sometimes, by a dexterous movement, awaits the onset with his neck extended, and after transfixing the enemy with his formidable beak, tumbles or bears him to the land or the water, never to stretch his pinions more.-Dumfries Courier.

LORD BYRON AND HIS PET BEAR. It is well known that the young poet had a favourite bear-they were remarkably partial to each other. One of his Lordship's great delights was to englove and spar at Ursa, till the poet became tired and Ursa irritated; for though generally a tame and docile quadruped, he was muzzled for fear of accidents. His Lordship was suddenly called down to Nottinghamshire. He had taken places for "two gentlemen" in a northern mail, in the names of Byron and Bruin. It was a dark November night-the friends arrived in Lombard Street in a hackney-coach a little before eight. The off-door of the mail, at his Lordship's demand, was opened; Byron placed his own travelling cap on Bruin's head, and pushed him into the "vehicle of letters," followed, and immediately made him squat on the seat, looking as "demure as a Quaker in a brown upper Benjamin." They occupied the whole of the back; and it so happened that the two B's (Byron and Bruin) were the only passengers that started from the Post Office. At Islington they took in a third, a retired Cit.: he was a quidnunc! a Cockney! and a tailor! Old Snip's V's and W's in a short dialogue with the door-opening guard was quan. suff. for Byron; a pleasant companion for an educated Peer, young, proud, and splenetic! The bear's instinct pleased, but the Cockney's reason was emetical. Not a sound was heard within till ascending Highgate Hill. Alas! what is sciatica or gout compared to the infliction of silence on an old garrulous tailor? Snip took advantage of the hill--hemmed thrice, and then broke silence with-" Vell, Sir; a bit of nice noose in this here mornin's paper-vot d'ye think of them going on of that there cowardly rascal Boneypart?" A pretended snore, "loud and deep," was his Lordship's only reply to the Cockney quidnunc's attack on the “ "great soldier!" Snip was dead beat by the snore-he turned with disgust from his supposed sleeping opponent, and cast a longing eye towards the quiet gentleman in the fur cap in t'other corner, and re-opened his "vomitory of vociferation" with, "Hem! a nice bit of road this here, Sir, jest to Vetstun-(no answer). He's a deaf 'un, perhaps ;" and in a louder key re-commenced-" A