A LENTEN-SONG.

Quog, quog, quog, quog! A very unmusical note: This eminent basso, Mr. Frog, Has surely a cold in his throat. But he does his best, with a good intent, The little speckled man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! When the morning sky is red, He sits on the slippery, mossy log, With the rushes over his head. He does his best, with a good intent, The little sprawling man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! When the evening sky is pale, He nestles low in the sheltering bog, While the gentle dews exhale. He does his best, with a good intent, The little struggling man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! He strains till he shakes the reeds, And scares his neighbor, Miss Polly Wog As she hides in the water-reeds. He does his best, with a good intent, The little panting man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can. Quog, quog, quog, quog! Oh! aren't you afraid you'll burst? You should have put on, dear Mr. Frog, Your girdle of leather first. But on he goes, with his good intent, The little gasping man; For every frog must sing in Lent, As loud as ever he can.