S. W. Gillinan.



STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Stands at the top of the tree; And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is seven years junior to Me; Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks, And his work is as rough as he.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is coarse as a chimpanzee; And I can't understand why you gave him your hand, Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is dear to the Powers that Be; For they bow and They smile in an affable style Which is seldom accorded to Me.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is certain as certain can be Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host Of seniors—including Me.

Careless and lazy is he, Greatly inferior to Me. What is the spell that you manage so well, Commonplace Potiphar G.?

Lovely Mehitabel Lee, Let me inquire of thee, Should I have riz to what Potiphar is, Hadst thou been mated to Me?

Rudyard Kipling.



THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,—

The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!"

Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche.



MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediaeval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed he was without it; Miniver thought and thought and thought And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

Edwin Arlington Robinson.



THE RECRUIT

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Bedad, yer a bad un! Now turn out yer toes! Yer belt is unhookit, Yer cap is on crookit, Ye may not be dhrunk, But, be jabers, ye look it! Wan—two! Wan—two! Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "A saint it ud sadden To dhrill such a mug! Eyes front!—ye baboon, ye!— Chin up!—ye gossoon, ye! Ye've jaws like a goat— Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye! Wan—two! Wan—two! Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! Ye've eyes like a bat!—can ye see in the dark?"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Yer figger wants padd'n'— Sure, man, ye've no shape! Behind ye yer shoulders Stick out like two boulders; Yer shins is as thin As a pair of pen-holders! Wan—two! Wan—two! Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! I'm dhry as a dog—I can't shpake but I bark!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Me heart it ud gladden To blacken your eye. Ye're gettin' too bold, ye Compel me to scold ye,— Tis halt! that I say,— Will ye heed what I told ye? Wan—two! Wan—two! Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "I'll not stay a gaddin', Wid dagoes like you! I'll travel no farther, I'm dyin' for—wather;— Come on, if ye like,— Can ye loan me a quather? Ya-as, you— What,—two? And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo! You'll do! Whist! Mark! The Rigiment's flattered to own ye, me spark!"

Robert W. Chambers.



OFFICER BRADY

THE MODERN RECRUIT

I

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "G'wan! Ye're no lady! Luk here what ye've done: Ye've run in Red Hogan, Ye've pulled Paddy Grogan, Ye've fanned Misther Brogan An' called him a 'gun'!

"Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'An' what,' sez he, 't' 'ell,' sez he, 'Does the villyun mane to do? Lock up the ass in his shtall! He'll rue the day I rue, F'r he's pulled the dive that kapes me alive, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!'"

II

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Ye pinched young Mullady F'r crackin' a safe! An' Sinitor Moran An' Alderman Doran Is inside, a-roarin' F'r justice, ye thafe!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'What's this,' sez he, 'I hear?' sez he— An' the air, bedad, grew blue! 'Well, I nivver did hear av such gall! But if phwat ye say is thrue, He's pulled a fri'nd av a fri'nd av me fri'nd, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!"

III

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Here's Sullivan's lady Cavoortin' an' riled; She lifted a locket From Casey's coat pocket, An' it goes to the docket, An' Sullivan's wild!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! ''Tis a shame,' sez he, 'f'r to blame,' sez he, 'A lady so fair an' thrue, An' so divinely tall'— 'Tis po'ms he talked, ye Jew! An' ye've cooked yer goose, an' now ye're loose F'r to folly the goats! Whurroo!"

IV

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Where's Katie Macready, The Confidence Queen? She's niece to O'Lafferty's Cousins, the Caffertys— Sinitor Rafferty's Steady colleen!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'He's pinched,' sez he, 'an' cinched,' sez he, 'A lady tray comme eel foo! Go dangle th' tillyphone call, An' gimme La Mulberry Roo, F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme, An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'"

V

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "McCabe is afraid he Can't open to-night, F'r throuble's a-brewin', An' mischief's a-stewin', Wid nothin' a-doin' An' everything tight! There's Register Ronnell, Commissioner Donnell, An' Congressman Connell Preparin' f'r flight; The Dhistrict Attorney Told Magistrate Kearny That Captain McBurney Was dyin' o' fright!

"Oh! 'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman lookin' f'r you! 'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he. 'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue, An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall, An' lather 'im wan or two, An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale route Like a loonytick goat! Whurroo!'"

Robert W. Chambers.



POST-IMPRESSIONISM

I cannot tell you how I love The canvases of Mr. Dove, Which Saturday I went to see In Mr. Thurber's gallery.

At first you fancy they are built As patterns for a crazy quilt, But soon you see that they express An ambient simultaneousness.

This thing which you would almost bet Portrays a Spanish omelette, Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, A horse and cart upon a hill.

Now, Mr. Dove has too much art To show the horse or show the cart; Instead, he paints the creak and strain, Get it? No pike is half as plain.

This thing which would appear to show A fancy vest scenario, Is really quite another thing, A flock of pigeons on the wing.

But Mr. Dove is much too keen To let a single bird be seen; To show the pigeons would not do And so he simply paints the coo.

It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear.

Dove is the cleverest of chaps; And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, I wondered (and I'm wondering yet) Whether he did them on a bet.

Bert Leston Taylor.



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,"

IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY

It may be so—perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,— In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,—among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue;— No matter,—if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth—that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,— May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,— A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,— Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,— Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



CACOETHES SCRIBENDI

If all the trees in all the woods were men, And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



CONTENTMENT

"MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW"

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brone stone will do) That I may call my own; And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three—Amen! I always thought cold victual nice— My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land; Give me a mortgage here and there, Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share. I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, not so large, in rings. A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere— Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait—two, forty-five— Suits me; I do not care; Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four— I love so much their style and tone— One Turner, and no more. (A landscape, foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few—some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems—such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share— I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



A BOSTON LULLABY

Baby's brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby's precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes.

And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right. Sleep, my darling—leave Creation To its chances for the night.

James Jeffrey Roche.



A GRAIN OF SALT

Of all the wimming doubly blest The sailor's wife's the happiest, For all she does is stay to home And knit and darn—and let 'im roam.

Of all the husbands on the earth The sailor has the finest berth, For in 'is cabin he can sit And sail and sail—and let 'er knit.

Wallace Irwin.



SONG

Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be? Lady, it is already morn, And 'twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours' space? I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found; But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round, Thou prov'st the pleasant she; With spoils of meaner beauties crowned I laden will return to thee, Even sated with variety.

Richard Lovelace.



A PHILOSOPHER

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize About the ocean an' the skies; An' gab an' gas f'um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An' 'bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An' if his wife she'd ask the crank Ef he wouldn't kinder try to yank Hisself out-doors an' git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c'd bake her beans an' pies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' then he'd set an' flosserfize About the natur an' the size Of angels' wings, an' think, and gawp, An' wonder how they make 'em flop. He'd calkerlate how long a skid 'Twould take to move the sun, he did; An' if the skid was strong an' prime, It couldn't be moved to supper-time. An' w'en his wife 'd ask the lout Ef he wouldn't kinder waltz about An' take a rag an' shoo the flies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' then he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin' out the lots to rent, So's he could make an honest cent. An' if he'd find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin'-stuff; An' if 'twere best to take his wealth An' go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he'd enough To buy some more of fencin'-stuff; Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gump Ef he wouldn't kinder try to hump Hisself to t'other side the door, So she c'd come an' sweep the floor, He'd look at her with mournful eyes, An' say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' so he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout what it wuz held up the skies, An' how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin' 'tall, An' 'bout the natur, shape, an' form Of nawthin' that he made it from. Then, ef his wife sh'd ask the freak Ef he wouldn't kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an' find some aigs, He'd never move, nor lift his laigs; He'd never stir, nor try to rise, But say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' so he'd set an' flosserfize About the earth, an' sea, an' skies, An' scratch his head, an' ask the cause Of w'at there wuz before time wuz, An' w'at the universe 'd do Bimeby w'en time hed all got through; An' jest how fur we'd have to climb Ef we sh'd travel out er time; An' ef we'd need, w'en we got there, To keep our watches in repair. Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gawk Ef he wouldn't kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread, An' kinder git his stomach fed, He'd leap for that ar kitchen door, An' say, "W'y didn't you speak afore?" An' when he'd got his supper et, He'd set, an' set, an' set, an' set, An' fold his arms, an' shet his eyes, An' set, an' set, an' flosserfize.

Sam Walter Foss.



THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES

I

He was the Chairman of the Guild Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs; He was chief Mentor of the Lodge Of the Oracular Oligarchs; He was the Lord High Autocrat And Vizier of the Sons of Light, And Sultan and Grand Mandarin Of the Millennial Men of Might.

He was Grand Totem and High Priest Of the Independent Potentates; Grand Mogul of the Galaxy Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates; The President of the Dandydudes, The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee; The Leader of the Clubtown Band And Architects of Melody.

II

She was Grand Worthy Prophetess Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark; Of Vestals of the Third Degree She was Most Potent Matriarch; She was High Priestess of the Shrine Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie, And First Vice-President of the League Of the illustrious G. A. B.

She was the First Dame of the Club For teaching Patagonians Greek; She was Chief Clerk and Auditor Of Clubtown's Anti-Bachelor Clique; She was High Treasurer of the Fund For Borrioboolighalians, And the Fund for Sending Browning's Poems To Native-born Australians.

III

Once to a crowded social fete Both these much-titled people came, And each perceived, when introduced, They had the selfsame name. Their hostess said, when first they met: "Permit me now to introduce My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse To Mrs. Clabberhuse."

"'Tis very strange," said she to him, "Such an unusual name!— A name so very seldom heard, That we should bear the same." "Indeed, 'tis wonderful," said he, "And I'm surprised the more, Because I never heard the name Outside my home before.

"But now I come to look at you," Said he, "upon my life, If I am not indeed deceived, You are—you are—my wife." She gazed into his searching face And seemed to look him through; "Indeed," said she, "it seems to me You are my husband, too.

"I've been so busy with my clubs And in my various spheres I have not seen you now," she said, "For over fourteen years." "That's just the way it's been with me, These clubs demand a sight"— And then they both politely bowed, And sweetly said "Good night."

Sam Walter Foss.



THE IDEAL HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE

We've lived for forty years, dear wife, And walked together side by side, And you to-day are just as dear As when you were my bride. I've tried to make life glad for you, One long, sweet honeymoon of joy, A dream of marital content, Without the least alloy. I've smoothed all boulders from our path, That we in peace might toil along, By always hastening to admit That I was right and you were wrong.

No mad diversity of creed Has ever sundered me from thee; For I permit you evermore To borrow your ideas of me. And thus it is, through weal or woe, Our love forevermore endures; For I permit that you should take My views and creeds, and make them yours. And thus I let you have my way, And thus in peace we toil along, For I am willing to admit That I am right and you are wrong.

And when our matrimonial skiff Strikes snags in love's meandering stream, I lift our shallop from the rocks, And float as in a placid dream. And well I know our marriage bliss While life shall last will never cease; For I shall always let thee do, In generous love, just what I please. Peace comes, and discord flies away, Love's bright day follows hatred's night; For I am ready to admit That you are wrong and I am right.

Sam Walter Foss.



DISTICHS

Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, When they seem going they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them, Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second? What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.

John Hay.



THE HEN-ROOST MAN

De Hen-roost Man he'll preach about Paul, An' James an' John, an' Herod, an' all, But nuver a word about Peter, oh, no! He's afeard he'll hear dat rooster crow. An' he ain't by 'isself in dat, in dat— An' he ain't by 'isself in dat.

Ruth McEnery Stuart.



IF THEY MEANT ALL THEY SAID

Charm is a woman's strongest arm; My charwoman is full of charm; I chose her, not for strength of arm But for her strange, elusive charm.

And how tears heighten woman's powers! My typist weeps for hours and hours: I took her for her weeping powers— They so delight my business hours.

A woman lives by intuition. Though my accountant shuns addition She has the rarest intuition. (And I myself can do addition.)

Timidity in girls is nice. My cook is so afraid of mice. Now you'll admit it's very nice To feel your cook's afraid of mice.

Alice Duer Miller.



THE MAN

A man said to the universe, "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

Stephen Crane.



A THOUGHT

If all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, Earth would not hold it, The sky could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil, And keep him in fuel while Time's wheels run.

But if all the harm that's been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn't be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

James Kenneth Stephen.



THE MUSICAL ASS

The fable which I now present, Occurred to me by accident: And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident.

A stupid ass this morning went Into a field by accident: And cropped his food, and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffling it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. "Hurrah, hurrah!" exclaimed the brute, "How cleverly I play the flute!"

A fool, in spite of nature's bent, May shine for once,—by accident.

Tomaso de Yriarte.



THE KNIFE-GRINDER

Friend of Humanity

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road—your wheel is out of order— Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day' Knives and Scissors to grind O!'

"Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a law-suit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story."

Knife-grinder

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Tom in a scuffle.

"Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir."

Friend of Humanity

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

George Canning.



ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES

Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn, Are all thither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,— The stock-fish, I mean— At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also, Who always move low, Made haste from the bottom As if the devil had got 'em. No sermon beside The crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature. At God's word, They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set— All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

Abraham a Sancta-Clara.



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer's evening; Old Casper's work was done, And he before his cottage-door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden, for There's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in the great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes: "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Casper cried, "That put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round, Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born infant died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won, For many a thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory;

"And everybody praised the duke, Who such a fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he; "But 'twas a famous victory."

Robert Southey.



THE THREE BLACK CROWS

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; "Hark-ye," said he, "'tis an odd story, this, About the crows!" "I don't know what it is," Replied his friend. "No! I'm surprised at that; Where I came from it is the common chat; But you shall hear—an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." "Impossible!" "Nay, but it's really true; I have it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So, having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell"—relating the affair. "Yes, sir, I did; and, if it's worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me. But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows—not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went; "Sir"—and so forth. "Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though, in regard to number, not exact; It was not two black crows—'twas only one; The truth of that you may depend upon; The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?" "Why, in such a place." Away goes he, and, having found him out, "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" "Not I." "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none. Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow—crow—perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over." "And pray, sir, what was't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was—as black, sir, as a crow."

John Byrom.



TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due; It's true my prospects all look blue; But don't let that unsettle you. Never you mind! Roll on! (It rolls on.)

W. S. Gilbert.



ETIQUETTE

The Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo, And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured: Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, The passengers were also drowned excepting only two: Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, Upon a desert island were eventually cast. They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used, But they couldn't chat together—they had not been introduced.

For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade, Were properly particular about the friends they made; And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth, That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.

On Peter's portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare, But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn't bear. On Somer's side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, Which Somers couldn't eat, because it always made him sick.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore. The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, For the thought of Peter's oysters brought the water to his mouth. He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff: He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had When on board the Ballyshannon! And it drove them nearly mad To think how very friendly with each other they might get, If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the mus ridiculus, Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus: "I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, M'Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?"

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be; Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he. He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red, Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

"I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold, But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old. You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by. You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me, so do I."

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson! And Mr. Somers' turtle was at Peter's service quite, And Mr. Somers punished Peter's oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs; They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon, And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, And day by day they learned to love each other more and more. At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To Peter an idea occurred. "Suppose we cross the main? So good an opportunity may not be found again." And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done! I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?"

"But stay," said Mr. Peter; "when in England, as you know, I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!" "Then come with me," said Somers, "and taste indigo instead."

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound; When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: 'Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock! Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard; They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head. And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south; And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick, And Somers has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.

W. S. Gilbert.



A MODEST WIT

A supercilious nabob of the East— Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich— A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which—

Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suite, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade Did your good father gain a livelihood?" "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good."

"A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!"

"My father's trade! by Heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low— He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"

Selleck Osborn.



THE LATEST DECALOGUE

Thou shalt have one God only, who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse: At Church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honour thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive: Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat: Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly: Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition.

Arthur Hugh Clough.



A SIMILE

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turn'd up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?— Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.

Matthew Prior.



BY PARCELS POST

A DOMESTIC IDYLL

I sent my love a parcel In the days when we were young, Or e'er by care and trouble Our heart-strings had been wrung. By parcels post I sent it— What 'twas I do not know— In the days when we were courting, A long time ago.

The spring-time waxed to summer, Then autumn leaves grew red, And in the sweet September My love and I were wed. But though the Church had blessed us, My little wife looked glum; I'd posted her a parcel, And the parcel hadn't come.

Ah, many moons came after, And then there was a voice, A little voice whose music Would make our hearts rejoice. And, singing to her baby, My dear one oft would say, "I wonder, baby darling, Will that parcel come to-day?"

The gold had changed to silver Upon her matron brow; The years were eight-and-twenty Since we breathed our marriage vow, And our grandchildren were playing Hunt-the-slipper on the floor, When they saw the postman standing By our open cottage door.

Then they ran with joy to greet him, For they knew he'd come at last; They had heard me tell the story Very often in the past. He handed them a parcel, And they brought it in to show— 'Twas the parcel I had posted Eight-and-twenty years ago.

George R. Sims.



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

A friend of mine was married to a scold, To me he came, and all his troubles told. Said he, "She's like a woman raving mad." "Alas! my friend," said I, "that's very bad!" "No, not so bad," said he; "for, with her, true I had both house and land, and money too." "That was well," said I; "No, not so well," said he; "For I and her own brother Went to law with one another; I was cast, the suit was lost, And every penny went to pay the cost."— "That was bad," said I; "No, not so bad," said he: "For we agreed that he the house should keep, And give to me four score of Yorkshire sheep All fat, and fair, and fine, they were to be." "Well, then," said I, "sure that was well for thee?" "No, not so well," said he; "For, when the sheep I got, They every one died of the rot." "That was bad," said I; "No, not so bad," said he; "For I had thought to scrape the fat, And keep it in an oaken vat; Then into tallow melt for winter store." "Well, then," said I, "that's better than before?" "'Twas not so well," said he; "For having got a clumsy fellow To scrape the fat and melt the tallow; Into the melting fat the fire catches, And, like brimstone matches, Burnt my house to ashes." "That was bad," said I; "No! not so bad," said he; "for, what is best, My scolding wife has gone among the rest."

Unknown.



THE CONTRAST

In London I never know what I'd be at, Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, And life seems a blessing too happy for man.

But the country, Lord help me! sets all matters right, So calm and composing from morning to night; Oh, it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green!

In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope, The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope; What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days? It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.

In the country, what bliss, when it rains in the fields, To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields; Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree.

In town, we've no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed; And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon, She shines out of season, like satin in June.

In the country, these planets delightfully glare, Just to show us the object we want isn't there; Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes!

But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, the relief of the mind, When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:

Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well-draggled and wet in their feet; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?

I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet; That's to come—for as yet I, alas! am a swain, Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.

In town let me live then, in town let me die, For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!

Captain C. Morris.



THE DEVONSHIRE LANE

In a Devonshire lane as I trotted along T'other day, much in want of a subject for song; Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain— Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet; For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And e'en there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.

Old Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks, And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass, Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.

Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, That they shut up the beauties around from the sight; And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

But, thinks I, too, these banks within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam Looks lovely when deck'd with the comforts of home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose; And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Smooths the roughness of care—cheers the winter of life.

Then long be the journey and narrow the way; I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay; And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain, Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

John Marriott.



A SPLENDID FELLOW

Delmonico's is where he dines On quail on toast, washed down with wines; Then lights a twenty-cent cigar With quite a flourish at the bar.

He throws his money down so proud, And "sets 'em up" for all the crowd; A dozen games of billiards, too, He gaily loses ere he's through.

Oh, he's a splendid fellow, quite; He pays his debts with such delight, And often boasts of—to his clan— His honour as a gentleman. But when this splendid fellow's wife, Who leads at home a frugal life Begs for a little change to buy A dress, he looks at her so wry,

That she, alarmed at his distress, Gives him a kiss and sweet caress, And says, "Don't worry so, my dear, I'll turn the dress I made last year."

H. C. Dodge.



IF

If a man could live a thousand years, When half his life had passed, He might, by strict economy, A fortune have amassed.

Then having gained some common-sense, And knowledge, too, of life, He could select the woman who Would make him a true wife.

But as it is, man hasn't time To even pay his debts, And weds to be acquainted with The woman whom he gets.

H. C. Dodge.



ACCEPTED AND WILL APPEAR

One evening while reclining In my easy-chair, repining O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common sense, A solemn visaged lady, Who was surely on the shady Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence:

"I sent a poem here, sir," Said the lady, growing fiercer, "And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring'; But, although I've scanned your paper, Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper, I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing."

She was muscular and wiry, And her temper sure was fiery, And I knew to pacify her I would have to—fib like fun. So I told her ere her verses, Which were great, had come to—bless us, We'd received just sixty-one on "Spring," of which we'd printed one.

And I added, "We've decided That they'd better be divided Among the years that follow—one to each succeeding Spring. So your work, I'm pleased to mention, Will receive our best attention In the year of nineteen-forty, when the birds begin to sing."

Parmenas Mix.



THE LITTLE VAGABOND

Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

William Blake.



SYMPATHY

A knight and a lady once met in a grove While each was in quest of a fugitive love; A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy.

"Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!" "Oh, never was maid so deserted before!" "From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company!"

They searched for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble and there was a weed; "How tiresome it is!" said the fair, with a sigh; So they sat down to rest them in company.

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height! "One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere we die!" So kissing and crying kept company.

"Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!" "Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!" "To miss such perfection how blinded was I!" Sure now they were excellent company!

At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, "The weather is cold for a watery bier; When summer returns we may easily die, Till then let us sorrow in company."

Reginald Heber.



THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS

For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit: 'Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended: A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way, Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By damning those they have no mind to: Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite: The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for: Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow: All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin: Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minc'd pies and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge, Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose.

Samuel Butler.



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

O thou wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel, Sends ane to Heaven, an' ten to Hell, A' for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They've done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here, before Thy sight, For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserv'd most just damnation, For broken laws Sax thousand years ere my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me deep in Hell, To gnash my gooms, to weep and wail In burnin' lakes, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock!

But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin.

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high should turn That he's sae gifted: If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou has a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, An' blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An' open shame!

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae monie takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.

An' when we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;— Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an' potatoes!

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr! Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads! Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare, For their misdeeds!

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My vera heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', An' pish'd wi' dread, While he wi' hingin' lip an' snakin', Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him! Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r; But for Thy people's sake destroy them, An' dinna spare!

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen!

Robert Burns.



THE LEARNED NEGRO

There was a negro preacher, I have heard, In Southern parts before rebellion stirred, Who did not spend his strength in empty sound; His was a mind deep-reaching and profound. Others might beat the air, and make a noise, And help to amuse the silly girls and boys; But as for him, he was a man of thought, Deep in theology, although untaught. He could not read or write, but he was wise, And knew right smart how to extemporize. One Sunday morn, when hymns and prayers were said, The preacher rose and rubbing up his head, "Bredren and sisterin, and companions dear, Our preachment for to-day, as you shall hear, Will be ob de creation,—ob de plan On which God fashioned Adam, de fust man. When God made Adam, in de ancient day, He made his body out ob earth and clay, He shape him all out right, den by and by, He set him up again de fence to dry." "Stop," said a voice; and straightway there arose An ancient negro in his master's clothes. "Tell me," said he, "before you farder go, One little thing which I should like to know. It does not quite get through dis niggar's har, How came dat fence so nice and handy dar?" Like one who in the mud is tightly stuck, Or one nonplussed, astonished, thunderstruck, The preacher looked severely on the pews, And rubbed his hair to know what words to use: "Bredren," said he, "dis word I hab to say; De preacher can't be bothered in dis way; For, if he is, it's jest as like as not, Our whole theology will be upsot."

Unknown.



TRUE TO POLL

I'll sing you a song, not very long, But the story somewhat new, Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did, To his Poll was always true. He sailed away in a galliant ship From the port of old Bristol, And the last words he uttered, As his hankercher he fluttered, Were, "My heart is true to Poll."

His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll, It's no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll.

'Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam, And looked about for an inn; When a noble savage lady, of a color rather shady, Came up with a kind of grin: "Oh, marry me, and a king you'll be, And in a palace loll; Or we'll eat you willy-nilly." So he gave his hand, did Billy, But his heart was true to Poll.

Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led As the King of the Kikeryboos; His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella, And he wore a pair of over-shoes; He'd corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Whose beauties I cannot here extol; One day they all revolted, So he back to Bristol bolted, For his heart was true to Poll.

His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll, It's no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll.

F. C. Burnand.



TRUST IN WOMEN

When these things following be done to our intent, Then put women in trust and confident.

When nettles in winter bring forth roses red, And all manner of thorn trees bear figs naturally, And geese bear pearls in every mead, And laurel bear cherries abundantly, And oaks bear dates very plenteously, And kisks give of honey superfluence, Then put women in trust and confidence.

When box bear paper in every land and town, And thistles bear berries in every place, And pikes have naturally feathers in their crown, And bulls of the sea sing a good bass, And men be the ships fishes trace, And in women be found no insipience, Then put them in trust and confidence.

When whitings do walk forests to chase harts, And herrings their horns in forests boldly blow, And marmsets mourn in moors and lakes, And gurnards shoot rooks out of a crossbow, And goslings hunt the wolf to overthrow, And sprats bear spears in armes of defence, Then put women in trust and confidence.

When swine be cunning in all points of music, And asses be doctors of every science, And cats do heal men by practising of physic, And buzzards to scripture give any credence, And merchants buy with horn, instead of groats and pence, And pyes be made poets for their eloquence, Then put women in trust and confidence.

When sparrows build churches on a height, And wrens carry sacks unto the mill, And curlews carry timber houses to dight, And fomalls bear butter to market to sell, And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill, And greenfinches to goslings do obedience, Then put women in trust and confidence.

When crows take salmon in woods and parks, And be take with swifts and snails, And camels in the air take swallows and larks, And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails, And shipmen take a ride instead of sails, And when wives to their husbands do no offence, Then put women in trust and confidence.

When antelopes surmount eagles in flight, And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower, And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might, And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour, And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower, And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence, Then put women in trust and confidence.

Unknown.



THE LITERARY LADY

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Round her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan.



TWELVE ARTICLES

I

Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read.

II

By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor.

III

When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

IV

When I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless.

V

When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word.

VI

When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII

Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII

Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

IX

You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.

X

You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI

Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.

XII

Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends.

Dean Swift.



ALL-SAINTS

In a church which is furnish'd with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin, The penitents' dresses are sealskin and sable, The odour of sanctity's eau-de-Cologne.

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints, He would say, as he look'd at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All-Sinners', if this is All-Saints'?"

Edmund Yates.



HOW TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE

A brow austere, a circumspective eye. A frequent shrug of the os humeri; A nod significant, a stately gait, A blustering manner, and a tone of weight, A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare: Adopt all these, as time and place will bear; Then rest assur'd that those of little sense Will deem you sure a man of consequence.

Mark Lemon.



ON A MAGAZINE SONNET

"Scorn not the sonnet," though its strength be sapped, Nor say malignant its inventor blundered; The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped Had otherwise been covered with a hundred.

Russell Hilliard Loines.



PARADISE

A HINDOO LEGEND

A Hindoo died—a happy thing to do When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's Paradise. "Hast been through Purgatory?" Brahma said. "I have been married," and he hung his head. "Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son! Marriage and Purgatory are as one." In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.

He scarce had entered in the Garden fair, Another Hindoo asked admission there. The self-same question Brahma asked again: "Hast been through Purgatory?" "No; what then?" "Thou canst not enter!" did the god reply. "He that went in was no more there than I." "Yes, that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth has suffered for all sin." "Married? 'Tis well; for I've been married twice!" "Begone! We'll have no fools in Paradise!"

George Birdseye.



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip; Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead-roll I merrily chant; Where'er I walk no money I want; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell: Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper, of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream; Myself by denial I mortify— With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin— With old sack wine I'm lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?

John O'Keefe.



OF A CERTAIN MAN

There was (not certain when) a certain preacher That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who, having read in Latin thus a text Of erat quidam homo, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, There was a certain man. "But now," quoth he, "good people, note you this, He said there was: he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, There was a certain woman."

Sir John Harrington.



CLEAN CLARA

What! not know our Clean Clara? Why, the hot folks in Sahara, And the cold Esquimaux, Our little Clara knows! Clean Clara, the Poet sings! Cleaned a hundred thousand things!

She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord, She cleaned the hilt of the family sword, She cleaned my lady, she cleaned my lord, All the pictures in their frames, Knights with daggers and stomachered dames— Cecils, Godfreys, Montforts, Graemes, Winifreds—all those nice old names!

She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock, She cleaned the spring of a secret lock, She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard, All the books she India-rubbered! She cleaned the Dutch tiles in the place, She cleaned some very old-fashioned lace; The Countess of Miniver came to her, "Pray, my dear, will you clean my fur?" All her cleanings are admirable. To count your teeth you will be able, If you look in the walnut table.

She cleaned the tent-stitch and the sampler, She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler; Joseph going down into the pit, And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit.

You saw the reapers, not in the distance. And Elisha, coming to the child's assistance, With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet, The chair, the bed and the bolster of it. The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective, Just like an eel: to spare invective There was plenty of color but no perspective. However, Clara cleaned it all, With a curious lamp, that hangs in the hall; She cleaned the drops of the chandeliers, Madam, in mittens, was moved to tears.

She cleaned the cage of the cockatoo, The oldest bird that ever grew; I should say a thousand years old would do. I'm sure he looked it, but nobody knew; She cleaned the china, she cleaned the delf, She cleaned the baby, she cleaned herself!

Tomorrow morning, she means to try To clean the cobwebs from the sky; Some people say the girl will rue it, But my belief is she will do it.

So I've made up my mind to be there to see There's a beautiful place in the walnut tree; The bough is as firm as a solid rock; She brings out her broom at six o'clock.

W. B. Rands.



CHRISTMAS CHIMES

Little Penelope Socrates, A Boston maid of four, Wide opened her eyes on Christmas morn, And looked the landscape o'er. "What is it inflates my bas de bleu?" She asked with dignity; "'Tis Ibsen in the original! Oh, joy beyond degree!"

Miss Mary Cadwallader Rittenhouse Of Philadelphia town, Awoke as much as they ever do there And watched the snow come down. "I'm glad that it is Christmas," You might have heard her say, "For my family is one year older now Than it was last Christmas day."

'Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham. And Miss Irene de Jones Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned, And stretched her languid bones. "I'm sorry it is Christmas, Papa at home will stay, For 'Change is closed and he won't make A single cent to-day."

Windily dawned the Christmas On the city by the lake, And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy Was instantly awake. "What's that thing in my stocking? Well, in two jiffs I'll know!" And she drew a grand piano forth From 'way down in the toe.

Unknown.



THE RULING PASSION

From "Moral Essays," Epistle I

The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. "Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke," Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke; "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead,— And—Betty—give this cheek a little red." The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all humankind. Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If—where I'm going—I could serve you, sir?" "I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, sir? "My money, sir! What, all? Why—if I must" (then wept)—"I give it Paul." The manor, sir? "The manor, hold!" he cried, "Not that,—I cannot part with that,"—and died.

Alexander Pope.



THE POPE AND THE NET

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries "Unfit!"

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head; Each wings at each: "I' faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince—it is indeed a rise: So, here's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!"

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: "The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice! He's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, "'Tis my advice."

So Pope he was: and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on— To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone— That guarantee of lowlihead,—eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried "Pish! I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish."

Robert Browning.



AN ACTOR

A shabby fellow chanced one day to meet The British Roscius in the street, Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags; The fellow hugged him with a kind embrace;— "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick. "No?" replied the man of rags; "The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure." "When?" with an oath, cried Garrick, "for, by G—d, I never saw that face of yours before! What characters, I pray, Did you and I together play?" "Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock— When you played Hamlet, sir, I played the cock!"

John Wolcot.



THE LOST SPECTACLES

A country curate, visiting his flock, At old Rebecca's cottage gave a knock. "Good morrow, dame, I mean not any libel, But in your dwelling have you got a Bible?" "A Bible, sir?" exclaimed she in a rage, "D'ye think I've turned a Pagan in my age? Here, Judith, and run upstairs, my dear, 'Tis in the drawer, be quick and bring it here." The girl return'd with Bible in a minute, Not dreaming for a moment what was in it; When lo! on opening it at parlor door, Down fell her spectacles upon the floor. Amaz'd she stared, was for a moment dumb, But quick exclaim'd, "Dear sir, I'm glad you're come. 'Tis six years since these glasses first were lost, And I have miss'd 'em to my poor eyes' cost!" Then as the glasses to her nose she raised, She closed the Bible—saying, "God be praised!"

Unknown.



THAT TEXAN CATTLE MAN

We rode the tawny Texan hills, A bearded cattle man and I; Below us laughed the blossomed rills, Above the dappled clouds blew by. We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir, Three-fourths of man's whole time he keeps To talk, to think, to be of HER ; The other fourth he sleeps.

To learn what he might know of love, I laughed all constancy to scorn. "Behold yon happy, changeful dove! Behold this day, all storm at morn, Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun. Yea, all things change—the heart, the head, Behold on earth there is not one That changeth not," I said.

He drew a glass as if to scan The plain for steers; raised it and sighed. He craned his neck, this cattle man, Then drove the cork home and replied: "For twenty years (forgive these tears)— For twenty years no word of strife— I have not known for twenty years One folly from my wife."

I looked that Texan in the face— That dark-browed, bearded cattle man, He pulled his beard, then dropped in place A broad right hand, all scarred and tan, And toyed with something shining there From out his holster, keen and small. I was convinced. I did not care To argue it at all.

But rest I could not. Know I must The story of my Texan guide; His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blessed, immortal bride. I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much. Was she of Texan growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that boasted such Eternal constancy?

I could not rest until I knew— "Now twenty years, my man," said I, "Is a long time." He turned and drew A pistol forth, also a sigh. "'Tis twenty years or more," said he, "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me how.

"'Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin Texan land Should stand out like a Winter star. America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea— 'T would make them truer, nobler men. To know how this may be."

"It's twenty years or more," urged he, "Nay, that I know, good guide of mine; But lead me where this wife may be, And I a pilgrim at a shrine. And kneeling, as a pilgrim true"— He, scowling, shouted in my ear; "I cannot show my wife to you; She's dead this twenty year."

Joaquin Miller.



FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere, And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."

Ralph Waldo Emerson.



HOCH! DER KAISER

Der Kaiser of dis Faterland Und Gott on high all dings command, Ve two—ach! Don't you understand? Myself—und Gott.

Vile some men sing der power divine, Mine soldiers sing, "Der Wacht am Rhine," Und drink der health in Rhenish wine Of Me—und Gott.

Dere's France, she swaggers all aroundt; She's ausgespield, of no account, To much we think she don't amount; Myself—und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein—by Gott!

Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht small beer, Mit Boers und such she interfere; She'll learn none owns dis hemisphere But me—und Gott!

She dinks, good frau, fine ships she's got And soldiers mit der scarlet goat. Ach! We could knock them! Pouf! Like dot, Myself—mit Gott!

In dimes of peace, brebare for wars, I bear the spear and helm of Mars, Und care not for a thousand Czars, Myself—mit Gott!

In fact, I humor efery whim, With aspect dark and visage grim; Gott pulls mit Me, and I mit him, Myself—und Gott!

Rodney Blake.



WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Gineral B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we do? We can't never choose him, o' course—that's flat: Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?), An' go in for thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's been on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still was a part of his plan— He's been true to' one party, and that is himself; So John P. Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. goes in for the war; He don't vally principle mor'n an old cud; What did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We're gettin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't; We o' thought Christ went against war and pillage, An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson, he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Pulk, you know, he is our country; An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book, Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson, he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' that all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson, he Sez it ain't no such thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heered in his life Thet the Apostles rigg'd out in their swallow-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson, he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we're gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow— God sends country lawyers an' other wise fellers To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; For John P. Robinson, he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

James Russell Lowell.



THE CANDIDATE'S CREED

BIGLOW PAPERS

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,— But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt,— Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote—and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;— I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;— I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all— I don't care how hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air. I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,— Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in Cantin' ; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest I don't believe in princerple, But, O, I du in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It ain't by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied— I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,— Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness— Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets— Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pastures sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me.

James Russell Lowell.



THE RAZOR SELLER

A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried— All were imposters—"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff! So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors; a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow—found him—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave." "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile—"to sell."

John Wolcot.



THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through. A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair— Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility.

He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat; And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best.

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him.

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge.

As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work. He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition.

He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion! And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's. Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow.

Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come. He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee.

Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat! That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in. When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling.

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians, My all sorts of—inians And all sorts of—arians; My all sorts of—ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils. How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils! My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the stitches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see! Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me. So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had. Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad, To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation.