"Ay! too deep by half for such ninnies as I."

Quoth Jones--"'Twas delightful the bushes to beat
With a gun in my hand and a dog at my feet,
But the game at the Horse-Guards is different, good lack!
Tis a gun in my hand and a cat at my back."

To Bacchus, his saint, our dejected recruit.
One morn, about drill time, thus proffer'd his suit--
"Oh make me a sparrow, a wasp, or an ape--
All's one, so I get at the juice of the grape."

The God was propitious--he instantly found
His ten toes distend and take root in the ground;
His back was a stem, and his belly was bark,
And his hair in green leaves overshadow'd the Park.

Grapes clustering hung o'er his grenadier cap,
His blood became juice, and his marrow was sap:
Till nothing was left of the muscles and bones
That form'd the identical toper, Jack Jones.

Transform'd to a vine, he is still seen on guard,
At his former emporium in Great Scotland-yard;
And still, though a vine, like his fellow-recruits,
He is train'd, after listing, his ten-drills, and shoots.

_New Monthly Magazine_.

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