X NARRATIVE (continued 3)

THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS

Upon an island, all alone, They lived, in the Pacific; Somewhere within the Torrid Zone, Where heat is quite terrific. 'Twould shock you were I to declare The many things they did not wear, Altho' no doubt One's best without Such things in heat terrific. Though cannibals by birth were they, Yet, since they'd first existed, Their simple menu day by day Of such-like things consisted: Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams, And stews from freshly-gathered clams, Such things as these Were,—if you please,— Of what their fare consisted. But after dinner they'd converse, Nor did their topic vary; Wild tales of gore they would rehearse, And talk of missionary. They'd gaze upon each other's joints, And indicate the tender points. Said one: "For us 'Tis dangerous To think of missionary." Well, on a day, upon the shore, As flotsam, or as jetsam, Some wooden cases,—ten, or more,— Were cast up. "Let us get some, And see, my friend, what they contain; The chance may not occur again," Said good Who-zoo. Said Tum-tum, "Do; We'll both wade out and get some." The cases held,—what do you think?— "Prime Missionary—tinned." Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink— The man who made it sinned: He thus had labelled bloater-paste To captivate the native taste. He hoped, of course, This fraud to force On them. In this he sinned. Our simple friends knew naught of sin; They thought that this confection Was missionary in a tin According to direction. For very joy they shed salt tears. "'Tis what we've waited for, for years," Said they. "Hooray! We'll feast to-day According to direction." "'Tis very tough," said one, for he The tin and all had eaten. "Too salt," the other said, "for me; The flavour might be beaten." It was enough. Soon each one swore He'd missionary eat no more: Their tastes were cured, They felt assured This flavour might be beaten. And, should a missionary call To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all, And manners ornamental; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental. G. E. Farrow.

THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK

I may as well Proceed to tell About a Mister Higgs, Who grew quite rich In trade—the which Was selling pork and pigs. From trade retired, He much desired To rank with gentlefolk, So bought a place He called "The Chase," And furnished it—old oak. Ancestors got (Twelve pounds the lot, In Tottenham Court Road); A pedigree— For nine pounds three,— The Heralds' Court bestowed. Within the hall, And on the wall, Hung armour bright and strong. "To Ethelbred"— The label read— "De Higgs, this did belong." 'Twas quite complete, This country seat, Yet neighbours stayed away. Nobody called,— Higgs was blackballed,— Which caused him great dismay. "Why can it be?" One night said he When thinking of it o'er. There came a knock ('Twas twelve o'clock) Upon his chamber door. Higgs cried, "Come in!" A vapour thin The keyhole wandered through. Higgs rubbed his eyes In mild surprise: A ghost appeared in view. "I beg," said he, "You'll pardon me, In calling rather late. A family ghost, I seek a post, With wage commensurate. "I'll serve you well; My 'fiendish yell' Is certain sure to please. 'Sepulchral tones,' And 'rattling bones,' I'm very good at these. "Five bob I charge To roam at large, With 'clanking chains' ad lib.; I do such things As 'gibberings' At one-and-three per gib. "Or, by the week, I merely seek Two pounds—which is not dear; Because I need, Of course, no feed, No washing, and no beer." Higgs thought it o'er A bit, before He hired the family ghost, But, finally, He did agree To give to him the post. It got about— You know, no doubt, How quickly such news flies— Throughout the place, From "Higgses Chase" Proceeded ghostly cries. The rumour spread, Folks shook their head, But dropped in one by one. A bishop came (Forget his name), And then the thing was done. For afterwards All left their cards, "Because," said they, "you see, One who can boast A family ghost Respectable must be." When it was due, The "ghostes's" screw Higgs raised—as was but right— They often play, In friendly way, A game of cards at night. G. E. Farrow.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,— On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,— The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Mænads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Small pity for him!—He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,— Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea,— Looked for the coming that might not be! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away?— Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,— "What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me,—I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?" Said an old wife, mourning her only son: "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead! J. G. Whittier.

DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why He couldn't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try— If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green: The son of a farmer, age fourteen; His body was long and lank and lean— Just right for flying, as will be seen; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry—for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent To catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Dædalus of yore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs Those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late shall navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me; And if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it. "The birds can fly an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin. "That the bluebird an' phœbe Are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? Just show me that! Ur prove 't the bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat. An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" He argued further: "Nur I can't see What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me;— Ain't my business Important's his'n is? That Icarus Made a perty muss— Him an' his daddy Dædalus They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther, Ur suthin' ur other." And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand To mummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand." So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely buttoned within his vest; And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws And all such things as geniuses use;— Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; Some wire, and several old umbrellas; A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; A piece of harness; and straps and strings; And a big strong box, In which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk Around the corner to see him work— Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks; And a dipper of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, For Darius was sly! And whenever at work he happened to spy At chink or crevice a blinking eye, He let the dipper of water fly. "Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks His big strong box:— "The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' he is little an' long an' slim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb An' ef you'll be Advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!" So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 'twas done— The greatest invention under the sun! "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!" 'Twas the Fourth of July, And the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by— Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off, I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing, An' practise a little on the wing." "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. "No; botheration! I've got sich a cold—a toothache—I— My gracious!—feel's though I should fly!" Said Jotham, "Sho! Guess ye better go." But Darius said, "No! Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said:— "I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, I'll astonish the nation, An' all creation, By flyin' over the celebration! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull: I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'What world's this 'ere That I've come near?' Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' I'll try to race 'ith their ol' balloon!" He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What is the feller up to, hey!" "Don'o'—the 's suthin' ur other to pay, Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye! He never 'd missed a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn, An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat And there they hid; And Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see." As knights of old put on their mail— From head to foot an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail, (I believe they called the thing a helm,) Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the earth So this modern knight Prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight Jointed and jaunty, strong and light— Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip; Ten feet they measured from tip to tip And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. "Hush!" Reuben said, "He's up in the shed! He's opened the winder—I see his head! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near;— Guess he don' o' who's hid in here! He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's a climbin' out now—Of all the things! What's he got on? I vum, it's wings! An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail! An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that, Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by; But the' 's on'y a caf an' goslin nigh. They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see— The dragon! he's goin' to fly! Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop—flop—an' plump To the ground with a thump! Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump!" As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere— Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels— So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs. Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting-stars, and various things; Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow fled the calf, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, "Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight O' fun in 't when ye come to light." I just have room for the moral here: And this is the moral—Stick to your sphere. Or if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is—Take care how you light. John Townsend Trowbridge.

A GREAT FIGHT

"There was a man in Arkansaw As let his passions rise, And not unfrequently picked out Some other varmint's eyes. "His name was Tuscaloosa Sam And often he would say, 'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw I can't whip any day.' "One morn, a stranger passin' by, Heard Sammy talkin' so, And down he scrambled from his hoss, And off his coat did go. "He sorter kinder shut one eye, And spit into his hand, And put his ugly head one side, And twitched his trowsers' band. "'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief, Whomever you may be, That I kin make you screech, and smell Pertiklor agony.' "I'm thar,' said Tuscaloosa Sam, And chucked his hat away; 'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up As far as buttons may. "He thundered on the stranger's mug, The stranger pounded he; And oh! the way them critters fit Was beautiful to see. "They clinched like two rampageous bears, And then went down a bit; They swore a stream of six-inch oaths And fit, and fit, and fit. "When Sam would try to work away, And on his pegs to git, The stranger'd pull him back; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit! "Then like a pair of lobsters, both Upon the ground were knit, And yet the varmints used their teeth, And fit, and fit, and fit!! "The sun of noon was high above, And hot enough to split, But only riled the fellers more, That fit, and fit, and fit!!! "The stranger snapped at Samy's nose, And shortened it a bit; And then they both swore awful hard, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!! "The mud it flew, the sky grew dark, And all the litenins lit; But still them critters rolled about, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!! "First Sam on top, then t'other chap; When one would make a hit, The other'd smell the grass; and so They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!! "The night came on, the stars shone out As bright as wimmen's wit; And still them fellers swore and gouged, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!! "The neighbours heard the noise they made, And thought an earthquake lit; Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!! "For miles around the noise was heard; Folks couldn't sleep a bit, Because them two rantankerous chaps Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!! "But jist at cock-crow, suddenly, There came an awful pause, And I and my old man run out To ascertain the cause. "The sun was rising in the yeast, And lit the hull concern; But not a sign of either chap Was found at any turn. "Yet, in the region where they fit, We found, to our surprise, One pint of buttons, two big knives, Some whiskers, and four, eyes!" Robert Henry Newell.

THE DONNYBROOK JIG

Oh! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg, That could properly handle a twig, He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there, In dancing a Donnybrook jig—with his twig. Oh! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg. Whin he came to the midst of the fair, He was all in a paugh for fresh air, For the fair very soon, was as full—as the moon, Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare! So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair. But Dermot, his mind on love bent, In search of his sweetheart he went, Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair, And took a small drop in each tent—as he went,— Oh! on whisky and love he was bent. And who should he spy in a jig, With a meal-man so tall and so big, But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate? Faith! her partner he hit him a dig—the pig, He beat the meal out of his wig. The piper, to keep him in tune, Struck up a gay lilt very soon; Until an arch wag cut a hole in the bag, And at once put an end to the tune—too soon— Och! the music flew up to the moon. The meal-man he looked very shy, While a great big tear stood in his eye, He cried, "Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt; With her may the devil fly high in the sky, For I'm murdered, and don't know for why." "Oh!" says Dermot, and he in the dance, Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance, "By the Father of Men, say but that word again, And I'll soon knock you back in a trance—to your dance, For with me you'd have but small chance." "But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she, "If you'll only just listen to me, It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe, Though he fought for his cousin—that's me," says she, "For sure Billy's related to me. "For my own cousin-jarmin, Anne Wild, Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child; And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn, Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a child As ever at mother's breast smiled. "And may be you don't know Jane Brown, Who served goat's-whey in Dundrum's sweet town? 'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother, And bought me this new yellow gown, to go down When the marriage was held in Milltown." "By the powers, then," says Dermot, "'tis plain, Like the son of that rapscallion Cain, My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt, But the devil a harm did I mane—that's plain; And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again." Viscount Dillon.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY

A captain bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters, Betrayed a maid who hanged herself one morning in her Garters. His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his Stomach daily, And took to drinking Ratafia while thinking of Miss Bailey. One night betimes he went to bed, for he had caught a Fever; Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay Deceiver." His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely, A Ghost stepped up to his bedside and said "Behold Miss Bailey!" "Avaunt, Miss Bailey!" then he cries, "your Face looks white and mealy." "Dear Captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteelly; The Crowner's 'Quest goes hard with me because I've acted frailly, And Parson Biggs won't bury me though I am dead Miss Bailey." "Dear Corpse!" said he, "since you and I accounts must once for all close, There really is a one pound note in my regimental Smallclothes; I'll bribe the sexton for your grave." The ghost then vanished gaily Crying "Bless you, Wicked Captain Smith, Remember poor Miss Bailey." Unknown.

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

The last two stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier.

The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep; But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee— A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was well-pouther'd, as guid as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue: He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat— And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie— And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; "Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben: She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine; "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put off her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low; And what was his errand he soon let her know, Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e; He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, "She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten— I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen. Lady Nairne.

A WEDDING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been; Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again can not be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town; Vorty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger tho' than thine) Walk'd on before the rest; Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him Should he go still so drest. At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the crown. But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his woing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance as did the maid. The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitson-ale Could ever yet produce; No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she Nor half so full of juyce. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And, to say truth (for out it must), It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way; No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisie makes comparison (Who sees them is undone); For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the Sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on a Sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Passion, oh me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride. The business of the kitchen's great; For it is fit that men should eat, Nor was it there denied. Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up like our train'd band, Presented, and away. When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace The company was seated. Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, (And who could help it, Dick?) O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance: Then dance again, and kiss: Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so. Sir John Suckling. XI TRIBUTE THE AHKOND OF SWAT Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Ahkond of Swat? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat, The Ahkond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot, The Ahkond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his t's and finish his i's with a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear, Without a speck or a smudge or smear or a Blot, The Ahkond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot, At the Ahkond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or Shot, The Ahkond of Swat? Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte? Oh, the Ahkond of Swat? Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a Jot, The Ahkond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or What, For the Ahkond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot, For the Ahkond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe, Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe or a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott. The Ahkond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a Scot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a Grott, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or Not, The Ahkond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht, The Ahkond of Swat? Some one, or nobody knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Ahkond of Swat! Edward Lear.

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT

"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."—London Papers of Jan. 22, 1878.

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean—he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead! For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead: (Sorrow, Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be. Sorrow, Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water. Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! Mourn, city of Swat, Your great Ahkoond is not, But laid 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed by the ground!) And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies— The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries— He knows what's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength; Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not! George Thomas Lanigan.

DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL,

RIVAL OF THE AKHOOND OF SWAT

I Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot Kotal—though where or what On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot; Further than this indeed he knoweth not— It borders upon Swat! II When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battal- Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies Upon Kotal, On sad Kotal whose people ululate For their loved Moolla late. Put away his little turban, And his narghileh embrowned, The lord of Kotal—rural urban— 'S gone unto his last Akhoond, 'S gone to meet his rival Swattan, 'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten. III His rival, but in what? Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamented Moolla late, As it were, emulate? Was it in the tented field With crash of sword on shield, While backward meaner champions reeled And loud the tom-tom pealed? Did they barter gash for scar With the Persian scimetar Or the Afghanistee tulwar, While loud the tom-tom pealed— While loud the tom-tom pealed, And the jim-jam squealed, And champions less well heeled Their war-horses wheeled And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field? Was Kotal's proud citadel— Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned, Beaten down with shot and shell By the guns of the Akhoond? Or were wails despairing caught, as The burghers pale of Swat Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?" —Or what? Or made each in the cabinet his mark Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck? Did they explain and render hazier The policies of Central Asia? Did they with speeches from the throne, Wars dynastic, Entents cordiales, Between Swat and Kotal; Holy alliances, And other appliances Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic Come by much more than their own? Made they mots, as "There to-day is No more Himalayehs," Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are No more Himalaya?" Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah, L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?" Khabu, did there come great fear On thy Khabuldozed Ameer Ali Shere? Or did the Khan of far Kashgar Tremble at the menace hot Of the Moolla of Kotal, "I will extirpate thee, pal Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?" Who knows Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did? Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes, And in their deaths not very much divided? If any one knows it, Let him disclose it! George Thomas Lanigan.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terré's tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terré still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter—nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder— "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest Terré's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one."—"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse." My old accustom'd corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanished many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; On James's head the grass is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place—but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me —There's no one now to share my cup. I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! W. M. Thackeray.

OULD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over From Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon, Circumvint back Through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy, The gout, the autopsy? Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez, No ways infarior In skill, but suparior, And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius. Chorus He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity! How the rich and the poor, To consult for a cure, Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues Or unlacin' their lungs, For divle one symptom the docther disparages. Troth, an' he'll tumble, For high or for humble, From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light Of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society. Chorus—He and his wig, etc. And as if by a meracle, Ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother, And quench the love-sickness Wid wonderful quickness, By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other. And the sufferin' childer— Your eyes 'twould bewilder To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin', And aich of them fast On some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'. Chorus—He and his wig, etc. Thin, his doctherin' done, In a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure. By Jupiter Ammon, What jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark! the view-hollo! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'. Och, but you'd think 'Twas old Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'. Chorus He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth! Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity, Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way, All at once, widout disparity! One more cheer For our docther dear, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity. Hip, hip, hooray! Alfred Perceval Graves.

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety; Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. Chorus Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin; Powerfulest preacher, and Tenderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, Dad and the divels and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all! Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from Mythology Into Thayology, Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call. Chorus Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick! Still for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. Chorus And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?" Chorus Alfred Perceval Graves.

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT

O the quietest home in earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. He ordered us here, and he sent us there— Though never a word could his small lips speak— With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!" But his abject slaves they turned on me; Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?" Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. "I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land." Old Time is doing his work full well— Much less of might does the tyrant wield; But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land. For the loss of peace I have ceased to care; Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth, And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. Mary E. Vandyne.

BARNEY McGEE

Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you, Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you, Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you— Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see! Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity, Nose that turns up without any vulgarity, Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty— Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee! Mellow as Tarragon, Prouder than Aragon— Hardly a paragon, You will agree— Here's all that's fine to you! Books and old wine to you! Girls be divine to you, Barney McGee! Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly, Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly. Here's some Barbera to drink it befittingly, That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee! Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there, Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there— Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there, How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea! There where the gang of us Met ere Rome rang of us, They had the hang of us To a degree. How they would trust to you! That was but just to you. Here's o'er their dust to you, Barney McGee! Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate, But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect; Divil a one of us ever came in till late, Once at the bar where you happened to be— Every eye there like a spoke in you centering, You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering— All Vagabondia shouts at your entering, King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee! There's no satiety In your society With the variety Of your esprit. Here's a long purse to you, And a great thirst to you! Fate be no worse to you, Barney McGee! Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate, Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate! Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate— Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee! Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery— Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery! Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery! How, would they silence you, Barney machree? Naught can your gab allay, Learned as Rabelais (You in his abbey lay Once on the spree). Here's to the smile of you, (Oh, but the guile of you!) And a long while of you, Barney McGee! Facile with phrases of length and Latinity, Like honorificabilitudinity, Where is the maid could resist your vicinity, Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea? Then your vivacity and pertinacity Carry the day with the divil's audacity; No mere veracity robs your sagacity Of perspicacity, Barney McGee. When all is new to them, What will you do to them? Will you be true to them? Who shall decree? Here's a fair strife to you! Health and long life to you! And a great wife to you, Barney McGee! Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility; Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility; Nobody ever yet found your utility— There is the charm of you, Barney McGee; Under conditions that others would stammer in, Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron, Polished as somebody in the Decameron, Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee. In your meanderin', Love and philanderin', Calm as a mandarin Sipping his tea! Under the art of you, Parcel and part of you, Here's to the heart of you, Barney McGee! You who were ever alert to befriend a man, You who were ever the first to defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man, Down on his luck and hard up for a V! Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude (And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)— Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude, You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee. That's no flim-flam at all, Frivol or sham at all, Just the plain—Damn it all, Have one with me! Here's one and more to you! Friends by the score to you, True to the core to you, Barney MeGee! Richard Hovey.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang; An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! A' down my beard the slavers trickle! I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; An', raving mad, I wish a heckle Were i' their doup! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, Our neebors sympathize to ease us Wi' pitying moan; But thee!—thou hell o' a' diseases, They mock our groan! Of a' the num'rous human dools, Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree! Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whare a' the tones o' misery yell, An' rankèd plagues their numbers tell In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'! O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till humankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's toothache! Robert Burns.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, great plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A contrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters,—that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain; Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell, Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite— Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not. Or, as men constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite. Charles Lamb.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall: John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They fillèd up a darksome pit With water to the brim: They heavèd in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe: And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all— He crush'd him 'tween two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round, And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Though the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland! Robert Burns.

STANZAS TO PALE ALE

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; From thee my lips they could not sever By saying thou contain'dst strychnine. Did I believe the slander? Never! I held thee still to be divine. For me thy color hath a charm, Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; And be thou cold when I am warm, As late I've been—so high the scale Of Fahrenheit—and febrile harm Allay, refrigerating Ale! How sweet thou art!—yet bitter, too And sparkling, like satiric fun; But how much better thee to brew, Than a conundrum or a pun, It is, in every point of view, Must be allow'd by every one. Refresh my heart and cool my throat, Light, airy child of malt and hops! That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops, And burst the buttons off the coat, Like stout and porter—fattening slops! Unknown.

ODE TO TOBACCO

Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet, when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones—(who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay After his labors. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon! Charles Stuart Calverley.

SONNET TO A CLAM

DUM TACENT CLAIMANT

Inglorious friend! most confident I am Thy life is one of very little ease; Albeit men mock thee with their similes And prate of being "happy as a clam!" What though thy shell protects thy fragile head From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea? Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, And bear thee off—as foemen take their spoil— Far from thy friends and family to roam; Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home, To meet destruction in a foreign broil! Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard! John G. Saxe.

TO A FLY

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL Of PUNCH

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch? Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul— Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch. Now let me take thee out, and moralize— Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose—they must, will sup. Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed! When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild. They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild. Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother. And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another! And now thy little drunken eyes unclose, And now thou feelest for thy little nose, And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again." And well mayest thou rejoice—'tis very plain, That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands. And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt— Now turnest—on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings. Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me—farewell, fly! Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford— There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream. Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life. Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends. Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm— While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in. Then, like an alligator, drags him in. John Wolcot.

ODE TO A BOBTAILED CAT

Felis Infelix! Cat unfortunate, With nary narrative! Canst thou no tail relate Of how (Miaow!) Thy tail end came to terminate so bluntly Didst wear it off by Sedentary habits As do the rabbits? Didst go a Fishing with it, Wishing with it To "bob" for catfish, And get bobbed thyself? Curses on that fish! Didst lose it in kittenhood, Hungrily chawing it? Or, gaily pursuing it, Did it make tangent From thy swift circuit? Did some brother Greyback— Yowling And howling In nocturnal strife, Spitting and staring Cursing and swearing, Ripping and tearing, Calling thee "Sausagetail," Abbreviate thy suffix? Or did thy jealous wife Detect yer In some sly flirtation, And, after caudal lecture, Bite off thy termination? And sarve yer right! Did some mischievous boy, Some barbarous boy, Eliminate thy finis? (Probably!) The wretch! The villain! Cruelly spillin' Thy innocent blood! Furiously scratch him Where'er yer may catch him! Well, Bob, this course now is left, Since thus of your tail you're bereft: Tell your friend that by letter From Paris You have learned the style there is To wear the tail short, And the briefer the better; Such is the passion, That every Grimalkin will Follow your fashion. Unknown.

A DIRGE

CONCERNING THE LATE LAMENTED KING OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS

And so our royal relative is dead! And so he rests from gustatory labors! The white man was his choice, but when he fed He'd sometimes entertain his tawny neighbors. He worshipped, as he said, his "Fe-fo-fum," The goddess of the epigastrium. And missionaries graced his festive board, Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens, And smoked before their hospitable lord, Welcome as if they'd been his second cousins. When cold, he warmed them as he would his kin— They came as strangers, and he took them in. And generous!—oh, wasn't he? I have known him Exhibit a celestial amiability:— He'd eat an enemy, and then would own him Of flavor excellent, despite hostility. The crudest captain of the Turkish navy He buried in an honorable grave—y. He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasant They found it quite judicious to adore him;— And when he dined, the nymphs were always present— Sometimes beside him and sometimes—before him. When he was tired of one, he called her "sweet," And told her she was "good enough to eat." He was a man of taste—and justice, too; He opened his mouth for e'en the humblest sinner, And three weeks stall-fed an emaciate Jew Before they brought him to the royal dinner. With preacher-men he shared his board and wallet And let them nightly occupy his palate! We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses; Good food exalts us like an inspiration, And missionary on the menu blesses And elevates the Feejee population. A people who for years, saints, bairns, and women ate Must soon their vilest qualities eliminate. But the deceased could never hold a candle To those prim, pale-faced people of propriety Who gloat o'er gossip and get fat on scandal— The cannibals of civilized society; They drink the blood of brothers with their rations, And crunch the bones of living reputations. They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling. They take the sharpened scalpel of surmises And cleave the sinews when the heart is swelling, And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes. They make the spirit in the body quiver; They quench the Light! He only took the—Liver! I've known some hardened customers, I wot, A few tough fellows—pagans beyond question— I wish had got into his dinner-pot; Although I'm certain they'd defy digestion, And break his jaw, and ruin his esophagus, Were he the chief of beings anthropophagous! How fond he was of children! To his breast The tenderest nurslings gained a free admission. Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed, Cared if they were plebeian or patrician. Shade of Leigh Hunt! Oh, guide this laggard pen To write of one who loved his fellow men! William Augustus Croffut. XII WHIMSEY AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word— From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor— Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew— But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her— When she has walk'd before. But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead— Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day. Oliver Goldsmith.

PARSON GRAY

A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male. How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense— Well "posted" in theology, And post and rail his fence. 'Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle. No clock more punctually went, He ne'er delayed a minute— Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it. His piety was ne'er denied; His truths hit saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner. He ne'er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed— No filcher he, though when he preached, He always "took" a text. As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw! Oliver Goldsmith.

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

There was a lady liv'd at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman— A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman. His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue—the fighting, rioting Irishman! One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman— The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman! He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle—O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman— The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman! His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again. The boosing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman— The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman! This was the lad the lady lov'd, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman— The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm sure, by this Irishman! William Maginn.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry, Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and wringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,— And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Southey.

LAY OF THE DESERTED INFLUENZAED

Doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore! Dever bore our feet shall rove The beadows as of yore! Dever bore with byrtle boughs Her tresses shall I twide— Dever bore her bellow voice Bake bellody with bide! Dever shall we lidger bore, Abid the flow'rs at dood, Dever shall we gaze at dight Upon the tedtder bood! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd, Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful! by owd! Ho, doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore, She will forget be id a bonth, (Bost probably before)— She will forget the byrtle boughs, The flow'rs we plucked at dood, Our beetigs by the tedtder stars. Our gazigs at the bood. Ad I shall dever see agaid The Lily and the Rose; The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow! The perfect bouth ad dose! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd— Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful! by owd!! H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS

Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, Eved October's suddy days are past— Add Subber's gawd! I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg— Because I bust. Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; Farewell to all articulated words I faid would speak. Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; With sorrowing heart I, wretched add forlord, Bid you—achew!!! Unknown.

RHYME OF THE RAIL

Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale— Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail! Men of different "stations" In the eye of Fame Here are very quickly Coming to the same. High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level Travelling together. Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large, Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in grey, Looking rather green; Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news; Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor! Stranger on the right, Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something very funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the Knicker- Bocker Magazine! Stranger on the left, Closing up his peepers; Now he snores again, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association." Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion She is out of danger! Woman with her baby, Sitting vis-à-vis, Baby keeps a-squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking! Market-woman, careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot Rather prematurely. Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale; Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail! John G. Saxe.

ECHO

I asked of Echo, t'other day (Whose words are often few and funny), What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love, and matrimony. Quoth Echo plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!" Whom should I marry? Should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!" What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life, And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!" But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray, should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forego it? Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!" But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!" What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart intwined about With Cupid's dear delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!" But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!" John G. Saxe.

SONG

Echo, tell me, while I wander O'er this fairy plain to prove him, If my shepherd still grows fonder, Ought I in return to love him? Echo: Love him, love him! If he loves, as is the fashion, Should I churlishly forsake him? Or in pity to his passion, Fondly to my bosom take him? Echo: Take him, take him! Thy advice then, I'll adhere to, Since in Cupid's chains I've led him; And with Henry shall not fear to Marry, if you answer, "Wed him!" Echo: Wed him, wed him! Joseph Addison.

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN

IN THE DORIC MANNER

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo. Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express? Echo. Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? Echo. Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address? Echo. A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? Echo. A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Liar. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo. Her deer. Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? Echo. Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? Echo. Beer. Shepherd. What must I do so women will be kind? Echo. Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo. Be cross. Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo. Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo. Blows. Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo. Bang her. Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger? Echo. Hang her. Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo. Guard her well. Dean Swift.

LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

Oh, the Roman was a rogue, He erat was, you bettum; He ran his automobilus And smoked his cigarettum. He wore a diamond studibus And elegant cravattum, A maxima cum laude shirt And such a stylish hattum! He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc, And bet on games and equi; At times he won at others though, He got it in the nequi; He winked, (quo usque tandem?) at Puellas on the Forum, And sometimes, too, he even made Those goo-goo oculorum! He frequently was seen At combats gladiatorial And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial; He often went on sprees And said, on starting homus, "Hic labour—opus est, Oh, where's my hic—hic—domus?" Although he lived in Rome,— Of all the arts the middle— He was, (excuse the phrase,) A horrid individ'l; Ah, what a different thing Was the homo (dative, hominy) Of far away B. C. From us of Anno Domini. Thomas R. Ybarra.

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES

My passion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad. Round as a hoop the bumpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better. Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind. Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before. Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin! I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep. Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale. The god of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me. Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her. Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares, And lighter than a feather. As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter. As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet. As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites. Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast. Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! She loved like any thing. But false as hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true. If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew. Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast. You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead. Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish. John Gay.

THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER

To Lake Aghmoogenegamook All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain. "I am a traveller," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four." He took a tavern-bed that night, And, with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on, and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there—quite tired of Maine— He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place; And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken. Then via Nine Holes and Goose Green He travelled through the State; And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down; To-day at Buzzard's Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town. At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came; And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest-game. Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent. From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay; Which having gained, he left the State, And took a southward way. North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight. Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard, too, Good provender he found. The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream. But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wondering tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill. At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near. But, spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine, straightway; A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook. Robert H. Newell.

THE ZEALLESS XYLOGRAPHER

DEDICATED TO THE END OF THE DICTIONARY

A xylographer started to cross the sea By means of a Xanthic Xebec; But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee, And feared he was in for a wreck. He tried to smile, but all in vain, Because of a Zygomatic pain; And as for singing, his cheeriest tone Reminded him of a Xylophone— Or else, when the pain would sharper grow, His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo. And so it is likely he did not find On board Xenodochy to his mind. The fare was poor, and he was sure Xerofphagy he could not endure; Zoöphagous surely he was, I aver, This dainty and starving Xylographer. Xylophagous truly he could not be— No sickly vegetarian he! He'd have blubbered like any old Zeuglodon Had Xerophthalmia not come on. And the end of it was he never again In a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main. Mary Mapes Dodge.

THE OLD LINE FENCE

Zig-zagging it went On the line of the farm, And the trouble it caused Was often quite warm, The old line fence. It was changed every year By decree of the court, To which, when worn out, Our sires would resort With the old line fence. In hoeing their corn, When the sun, too, was hot, They surely would jaw, Punch or claw, when they got To the old line fence. In dividing the lands It fulfilled no desires, But answered quite well In "dividing" our sires, This old line fence. Though sometimes in this It would happen to fail, When, with top rail in hand, One would flare up and scale The old line fence! Then the conflict was sharp On debatable ground, And the fertile soil there Would be mussed far around The old line fence. It was shifted so oft That no flowers there grew. What frownings and clods, And what words were shot through The old line fence! Our sires through the day There would quarrel or fight, With a vigour and vim, But 'twas different at night By the old line fence. The fairest maid there You would have descried That ever leaned soft On the opposite side Of an old line fence. Where our fathers built hate There we builded our love, Breathed our vows to be true With our hands raised above The old line fence. Its place might be changed, But there we would meet, With our heads through the rails, And with kisses most sweet, At the old line fence. It was love made the change, And the clasping of hands Ending ages of hate, And between us now stands Not a sign of line fence. No debatable ground Now enkindles alarms. I've the girl I met there, And, well, both of the farms, And no line fence. A. W. Bellow.

O-U-G-H

A FRESH HACK AT AN OLD KNOT

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h S'all be pronouncé "plow." "Zat's easy w'en you know," I say, "Mon Anglais, I'll get through!" My teacher say zat in zat case, O-u-g-h is "oo." And zen I laugh and say to him, "Zees Anglais make me cough." He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word, O-u-g-h is 'off,'" Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds Of words makes me hiccough! He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong; O-u-g-h is 'up' In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more, You make my t'roat feel rough." "Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right; O-u-g-h is 'uff.'" I say, "I try to spik your words, I cannot spik zem though!" "In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong! O-u-g-h is 'owe.'" "I'll try no more, I s'all go mad, I'll drown me in ze lough!" "But ere you drown yourself," said he, "O-u-g-h is 'ock.'" He taught no more, I held him fast, And killed him wiz a rough. Charles Battell Loomis.

ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, It assists at his birth and attends him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth, In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned; Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned; 'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear; But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower; Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour. Catherine Fanshawe.

TRAVESTY OF MISS FANSHAWE'S ENIGMA

I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there. The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh. But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel, I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel. Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas! But often I'm found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome. Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art. Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear; Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark, Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark. I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power, I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour. Horace Mayhew.