A WARNING.

I loathe all books. I hate to see The world and men through others' eyes; My own are good enough for me. These scribbling fellows I despise; They bore me. I used to try to read a bit, But, when I did, a sleepy fit Came o'er me. Yet here I sit with pensive look, Filling my pipe with fragrant loads, Gazing in rapture at a book!— A free translation of the Odes Of Horace. 'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth, And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath Of orris. I longed for something that was hers To cheer me when I'm feeling low; I saw this book of paltry verse, And asked to take it home—and so She lent it. I love her deep and tenderly, Yet dare not tell my love, lest she Resent it. I'll learn to quote a stanza here, A couplet there. I'm very sure 'Twould aid my suit could I appear Au fait in books and literature. I'll do it! This jingle I can quickly learn; Then, hid in roses, I'll return Her poet!

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty, cherished book, The odor vile, the noisome taint Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke Yet lingers! The hateful man, my book to spoil! Patrick, the tongs—lest I should soil My fingers! This lovely rose, these lilies frail, These violets he has sent to me The odor of his pipe exhale! Am I to blame that I should be Enraged? Tell Mr. Simpson every time He calls upon me, Patrick, I'm Engaged!