Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 368, June 1846. Various

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      Then Reynard to the Wolf stepp'd close,

      And said aloud, 'How lik'st the dose?

      Friend Isengrim, there yet may be

      For pardon opportunity

      Ere thou departest, only speed ye,

      Or else the wandering ghosts, I rede ye,

      Of all the lambs and kids thou'st slain

      Will haunt thee through the wide champain

      Whither thou'rt ebbing fast, down yonder;

      But softly, is he kill'd I wonder?'

      For so it seem'd. Through that vast crowd

      A pin drop had resounded loud.

      Thought Reynard, he has got it now!

      I'll rest awhile, for any how

      If he the fight again begin

      I'll try the trick upon his shin.

      Stunn'd lay the prostrate Wolf quite still

      And stiff, nor moved a peg until

      His squires, much fearing for his life,

      Rush'd in, preceded by his wife;

      And lifting him upon their knees,

      They gave him salts to make him sneeze,

      Which thirteen times he did repeat,

      Then started lively to his feet.

      A feeling of relief ran through

      The crowd, whose visages look'd rue,

      To think their fun forestall'd and spent

      By that untoward accident.

      Again the tuckets sound – again

      The dauntless heroes give the rein

      To their revenge. The Fox now charges

      The Wolf, and both his eyes enlarges,

      With right and lefters planted well,

      And punches on the nob that tell;

      So hard and fast the bangs and thumps,

      You'd thought that firemen at their pumps

      Were working —

      – crafty Reynard quick

      Deliver'd him a villain kick

      Right in the midriff – down he dropp'd!

      Like some tall forester when lopp'd

      By stroke of woodman's axe. 'Twas all

      He spake, not groaned in his fall,

      Outstretch'd upon the ground there lay

      The Wolf – he'd fainted clean away.

      No herald's voice, no tucket's cheer,

      The noble Isengrim could hear;

      An all but victor lately, now

      Prostrated, palsied by one blow;

      Nay, not so, by a kick unknightly,

      Foul aim'd, yet for the mark too rightly,

      Alas, its only merit that!

      But what cared Reynard, it was pat,

      And told, and did its business well;

      'Twas every thing desirable.

      The fight was o'er – the Wolf dragg'd out

      More dead than living, 'mid the shout

      Of rabble, whilst the heralds cry

      'Largesse,' the others 'Victory.'

      The air with noise and din resounded.

      The friends of Isengrim, confounded,

      Slunk off, whilst Reynard's stay'd; indeed

      The very people who agreed

      The Fox's death a public good

      Had been, now 'mong the foremost stood,

      By acclamations to attest

      Regard outheroding the rest!"

      We have not the heart to criticise this last and greatest effort of the reproducer. Its slang speaks for itself, and certainly carries along with it an undeniable "certificate of origin".

      A good translation of any thing is perhaps an impossibility. But it must be confessed, that the attempt of the German foreigner is highly creditable to him, and, with a little amendment, would probably afford our countrymen as fair an idea of the original as they are ever likely to see. Certain it is, that Mr Naylor has not improved upon it.

      If our readers think, that in the samples we have given of Mr Naylor's beauties, we have not sufficiently brought forward some of the more striking peculiarities of the Cockney school, we shall meet this complaint by presenting them with the subjoined anthology, the fragrance of which we think will satisfy their highest anticipations.