IV SATIRE (continued 2)

FATHER MOLLOY

OR, THE CONFESSION

Paddy McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him; Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him. "First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy." "Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear, 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road I've to travel's much longer, you know. So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle, To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet— 'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it, And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell all, 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy— And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy." "Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, "The manifold sins that humanity's heir to; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar— "Oh, murdher," says Paddy, "don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy— And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy." "Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly; And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly." "I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can—" "Tut, tut," says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence." "Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case— With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace; But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher—Och hone— You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone— But since I'm hard press'd and that I must forgive, I forgive—if I die—but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!— So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!" Samuel Lover.

THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop, The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving. "Don't you see, Mr. Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving. "I've studied owls, And other night-fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mr. Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. "Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about him there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving. James Thomas Fields.

WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come— When the prima donna's lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his "little things" Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours' children have lost their drums— Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you "Sir," Instead of "Say" and "Guverner"; When the funny man is humorsome— How can we stand the millennium? Robert J. Burdette.

LIFE IN LACONICS

Given a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the "wealth of nations." Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it. Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel. Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel. Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will. That good leads to evil there's no denying: If it were not for truth there would be no lying. "I'm nobody!" should have a hearse; But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse. "Folks say," et cetera! Well, they shouldn't, And if they knew you well, they wouldn't. When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place." Mary Mapes Dodge.

ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP

The woodchuck told it all about. "I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!" He never tired of telling. He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances; That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies. L. J. Bridgman.

REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss; An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go, Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row. I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat; Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons. I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high, An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree! Unknown.

THURSDAY

The sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro' the garden trim, In cassock and cowl, to the river's brim. Ev'ry brother his rod he took; Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even shine: "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Benedicite!" So down they sate by the river's brim, And fish'd till the light was growing dim; They fish'd the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand'ring by. They fish'd the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine. And the Abbot said, "It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea. And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day! Maledicite!" So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appetite! But down in the depths of the vault below There's Malvoisie for a world of woe!" So they quaff their wine, and all declare That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare. "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Benedicite!" Frederick E. Weatherly.

SKY-MAKING

TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL

Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher, Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over The ambient ether, and I don't see why You shouldn't make a sky. O hours Utopian which we may anticipate! Thick London fog how easy 'tis to dissipate, And make the most pea-soupy day as clear As Bass's brightest beer! Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest; I am become a most determined Tyndallist. If it is known a fellow can make skies, Why not make bright blue eyes? This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is; Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is. If you can make a halo or eclipse, Why not two laughing lips? The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily, And of D'Israeli ... forti nil difficile, Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool Who should have gone to school. Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles? Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles; Therefrom I'll coin a dinner, Nash's wine, And a nice girl to dine. Mortimer Collins.

THE POSITIVISTS

Life and the Universe show spontaneity: Down with ridiculous notions of Deity! Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists; Truth must be sought with the Positivists. Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison, Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison; Who will adventure to enter the lists With such a squadron of Positivists? Social arrangements are awful miscarriages; Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts, Kindle the ire of the Positivists. Husbands and wives should be all one community, Exquisite freedom with absolute unity. Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists— Such is the creed of the Positivists. There was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist— Then he was Man, and a Positivist. If you are pious (mild form of insanity) Bow down and worship the mass of humanity. Other religions are buried in mists; We're our own Gods, say the Positivists. Mortimer Collins.

MARTIAL IN LONDON

Exquisite wines and comestibles, From Slater, and Fortnum and Mason; Billiard, écarté, and chess tables; Water in vast marble basin; Luminous books (not voluminous) To read under beech-trees cacuminous; One friend, who is fond of a distich, And doesn't get too syllogistic; A valet, who knows the complete art Of service—a maiden, his sweetheart: Give me these, in some rural pavilion, And I'll envy no Rothschild his million. Mortimer Collins.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING

"... Sing, heavenly Muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leather purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers: or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he, O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yelep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forbode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont,) To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdu in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell: the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and th' inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights: distress'd, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind: or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sail'd secure, or through th' Ægean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea: in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. John Philips.

AFTER HORACE

What asks the Bard? He prays for nought But what the truly virtuous crave: That is, the things he plainly ought To have. 'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocks That vex distracted millionaires, Plagued by their fluctuating stocks And shares: While plutocrats their millions new Expend upon each costly whim, A great deal less than theirs will do For him: The simple incomes of the poor His meek poetic soul content: Say, £30,000 at four Per cent.! His taste in residence is plain: No palaces his heart rejoice: A cottage in a lane (Park Lane For choice)— Here be his days in quiet spent: Here let him meditate the Muse: Baronial Halls were only meant For Jews, And lands that stretch with endless span From east to west, from south to north, Are often much more trouble than They're worth! Let epicures who eat too much Become uncomfortably stout: Let gourmets feel th' approaching touch Of gout,— The Bard subsists on simpler food: A dinner, not severely plain, A pint or so of really good Champagne— Grant him but these, no care he'll take Though Laureates bask in Fortune's smile, Though Kiplings and Corellis make Their pile: Contented with a scantier dole His humble Muse serenely jogs, Remote from scenes where authors roll Their logs: Far from the madding crowd she lurks, And really cares no single jot Whether the public read her works Or not! A. D. Godley.

OF A PRECISE TAILOR

A tailor, a man of an upright dealing, True but for lying, honest but for stealing, Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, And on the sudden was in wondrous trance. The Fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner, Of sundry-coloured silks displayed a banner, Which he had stol'n; and wished, as they did tell, That one day he might find it all in hell. The man, affrighted at this apparition, Upon recovery grew a great precisian. He bought a Bible of the new translation, And in his life he showed great reformation. He walkèd mannerly and talkèd meekly; He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; He vowed to shun all companies unruly, And in his speech he used no oath but "truly": And, zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest, His meat for that day on the even was dressed. And, lest the custom that he had to steal Might cause him sometime to forget his zeal, He gives his journeyman a special charge That, if the stuff allowed fell out too large, And that to filch his fingers were inclined, He then should put the Banner in his mind. This done, I scant the rest can tell for laughter. A Captain of a ship came three days after, And bought three yards of velvet and three quarters, To make Venetians down below the garters. He, that precisely knew what was enough, Soon slipped away three quarters of the stuff. His man, espying it, said in derision, "Remember, Master, how you saw the vision!" "Peace, knave," quoth he; "I did not see one rag Of such-a-coloured silk in all the flag." Sir John Harrington.

MONEY

Who money has, well wages the campaign; Who money has, becomes of gentle strain; Who money has, to honor all accord: He is my lord. Who money has, the ladies ne'er disdain; Who money has, loud praises will attain; Who money has, in the world's heart is stored, The flower adored. O'er all mankind he holds his conquering track— They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, will wisdom's credit gain; Who money has, all earth is his domain; Who money has, praise is his sure reward, Which all afford. Who money has, from nothing need refrain;. Who money has, on him is favor poured; And, in a word, Who money has, need never fear attack— They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, in every heart does reign; Who money has, all to approach are fain; Who money has, of him no fault is told, Nor harm can hold. Who money has, none does his right restrain; Who money has, can whom he will maintain; Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold, Is straight enrolled. Who money has, all raise, none hold him back— They only are condemned who money lack. Jehan du Pontalais.

BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES

RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY Trilobite, Grapholite, Nautilus pie; Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry. Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff, Lias and Trias and that is enough. RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY Bye Baby Bunting, Father's gone star-hunting; Mother's at the telescope Casting baby's horoscope. Bye Baby Buntoid, Father's found an asteroid; Mother takes by calculation The angle of its inclination. RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY Little bo-peepals Has lost her sepals, And can't tell-where to find them; In the involucre By hook or by crook or She'll make up her mind not to mind them. RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY Oh, sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four-and-twenty follicles In the van of time. When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Men began to reign. Rev. Joseph Cook.

KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY

You Wi'yum, cum 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box? I don't want no foolin'—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but rocks? 'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine. I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline? I calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gits th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot! I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry—make 'ase! En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner! Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son! En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters— "One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters." En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule? Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun? I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million. En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions—en dat in de day's broad light— Ain't—Lawdy! it's GREEN! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich? Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But when dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe—en dat's des wut I mean. En nex' time you hook water-millions—you heered me, you ign'ant young hunk, Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"! Harrison Robertson.

JOHN GRUMLIE

John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day Than his wife could do in three. His wife rose up in the morning Wi' cares and troubles enow— John Grumlie bide at hame, John, And I'll go haud the plow. First ye maun dress your children fair, And put them a' in their gear; And ye maun turn the malt, John, Or else ye'll spoil the beer; And ye maun reel the tweel, John, That I span yesterday; And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, Else they'll all lay away. O he did dress his children fair, And put them a' in their gear; But he forgot to turn the malt, And so he spoil'd the beer: And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel That his wife span yesterday; But he forgot to put up the hens, And the hens all layed away. The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; He kirned, nor butter gat; And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; He danced with rage, and grat; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe Wi' mony a wave and shout— She heard him as she heard him not, And steered the stots about. John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, A weary wife and sad, And burst into a laughter loud, And laughed as she'd been mad: While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, If my wife should na win a penny a day She's aye have her will for me. Allan Cunningham.

A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES

Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well— Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes— Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes. But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again! When passion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again! When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again! When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the Gazette, Or colleges Tom Thumb; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again! When Pole and Thornton honour cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middlesex, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again! When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again! When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday— I may be yours again! Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root; Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,— Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear Nowhere Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. John Donne.

THE OUBIT

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang; A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang: "My Minnie bade me bide at home until I won my wings, I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things." This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in. Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes. Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you. Charles Kingsley.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose,— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipp'd the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose,— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! On the coasts that incessantly freeze, With his stones, and his bones, and his bows, On luxuriant tropical leas, Where the summer eternally glows, He is found, and his habits disclose (Let theology say what she can) That he lived in the long, long agos, Twas the manner of Primitive Man! From a status like that of the Crees Our society's fabric arose,— Develop'd, evolved, if you please, But deluded chronologists chose, In a fancied accordance with Mos es, 4000 B.C. for the span When he rushed on the world and its woes,— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. But the mild anthropologist—he's Not recent inclined to suppose Flints Palæolithic like these, Quaternary bones such as those! In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s First epoch the Human began Theologians all to expose,— 'Tis the mission of Primitive Man. ENVOY Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! Andrew Lang.

PHILLIS'S AGE

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three. Matthew Prior.