Part 2 — A White-Pine Ballad.

Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved, Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved; But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine, Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.

Johnson's folly—to be candid—was a wild desire to treat Every able male white citizen he met upon the street; And there being several thousand—but this subject why pursue? 'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.

No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow, But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low. 'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment, That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent.

"Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire, But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire; And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced, And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced.

But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.

Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground; And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand, and smiled On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.

Moral.

Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign, In this tale of Milton Perkins,—late an owner in White Pine,— You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same; And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.