H. Cholmondeley Pennell.



TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

DURING DINNER AND AFTER TENNYSON

Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis; The wine may come again, and take the shape, From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;" But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give, I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; I feel if I took whisky I should die! Ask me no more—for I prefer to live: Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, And I have striven against you all in vain. Let your good butler bring me Hock again: Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, Ask me no more!

Unknown.



CREMATION

BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire—against a sea of zealots And by consuming, end them? To Urn—to keep— No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to—'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn—to keep— To keep! Perchance to lose—aye, there's the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use. For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize—a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death— That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns—weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of? This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all. And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation.

William Sawyer.



AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years child— He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:— He hath conversed with sun and shower And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,— The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

Catharine M. Fanshawe.



THE LAY OF THE LOVE-LORN

PARODY ON TENNYSON'S "LOCKSLEY HALL"

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes— Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons!

See—the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow—all around my hat I've bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of ehina to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old, And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no— Bless your soul, it was the salmon—salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he—pay thee with a lover's glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge.

Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres—doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson—cursed be the whole concern!

Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster; much I'm like to make of that. Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat."

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years.

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two;

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans';

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years—

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain;

Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will take some savage woman—nay, I'll take at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard,

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon.

I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near— To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away. Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

Morning Post (The Times won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement—that's a never-failing plan:

" Wanted By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman. Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.—You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy. Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!

Aytoun and Martin.



ONLY SEVEN.

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, "What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out, "Of course you've had eleven." The maiden answer'd with a pout, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant, And said, "I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you won't reform," said I, "You'll never go to Heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, "Lines after Ache-Inside."

Henry S. Leigh.



'TWAS EVER THUS

I never rear'd a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away. I've dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on— I would he were a tree or flower!

Henry S. Leigh.



FOAM AND FANGS

O nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante— To this, my embrace!

The foam and the fangs and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage Of a poet as pinion'd in powers As a condor confined in a cage! My heart in a haystack I've hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden— I gaze and I die!

I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent, I've doated on devilry's daughter, And murmur'd much more than I meant; I've paused at Penelope's portal, So strange are the sights that I've seen, And mighty's the mind of the mortal Who knows what I mean.

Walter Parke.



X

NARRATIVE



LITTLE BILLEE

There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits, And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they'd got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, "We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie.

"First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps—"There's land I see!"

"Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Sir Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a Seventy-three.

W. M. Thackeray.



THE CRYSTAL PALACE

With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial.

O would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which Imperors might covet, Stands in High Park Like Noah's Ark, A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's, Room. And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant shores, Her Injians and Canajians, And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honour Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones, Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "God save the Queen," by turrns.

There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym injynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys, And illigant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's cabs on stands And shandthrydanns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Behay; Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And gingerbread and jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!

Ah, Judy thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.

W. M. Thackeray.



THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek— I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key— She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation—you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea— But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

W. M. Thackeray.



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give. And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give: That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appears 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soone! —Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee: And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

From Percy's Reliques.



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.

Thomas Gray.



MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE

A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur)

I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy—I said "What make you here?— The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;" Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy—he deem'd I meant to scoff: And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off"; He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,— He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?—it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold—Oh! fie!— It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony—he cried like any thing! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur—"Ah I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!!—

"My father, he is on the seas,—my mother's dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with,—let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy); "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man—cheer up!" I kindly said. "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck—then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones—we must not keep her up— There's roast potatoes on the fire,—enough for me and you— Come home,—you little vulgar Boy—I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,—that little vulgar Boy,— And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf, Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho—I went to Mr. Cobb— I changed a shilling—(which in town the people call "a Bob")— It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child— And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about—I gazed on stool and chair— I could not see my little friend—because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth—beneath the sofa too— I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons—I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; —I could not see my sugar-tongs—my silver watch—oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!—it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—

My roast potatoes!—all are gone!—and so's that vulgar Boy! I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "—Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?—ain't this a pretty go? —That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, —He's stolen my things and run away!!"—Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

* * * * *

Next morning I was up betimes—I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; I told my tale—he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of—something—'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"—dear me; what could he mean? With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer," —It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer— And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, —It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "somewheres" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I twig the chap—he's been upon the Mill— And 'cause he gammons so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely stow'd the swag." —That's French, I fancy, for a hat—or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!—it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL

Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, " Be warn'd in time by others' harm, and you shall do full well! " Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"

Don't take too much of double X!—and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!

Richard Harris Barham.



THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER

In Broad Street Buildings on a winter night, Snug by his parlor-fire a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose: While t'other held beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops; Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin; When lo! a decent personage in black Entered and most politely said: "Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar; which I Observed in passing by, And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get, In time of danger, Such kind attentions from a stranger! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate: He knows, too (the unconscionable elf!), That there's no soul at home except myself." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave), "Then he's a double knave; He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors: And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks; Enter your room, as I have done, Blow out your candles—thus—and thus— Pocket your silver candlesticks, And—walk off—thus!"— So said, so done; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

Horace Smith.



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN

John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown; A train-band captain eke was he, of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear—"Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton all in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child, myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear; therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linendraper bold, as all the world doth know; And my good friend, the calender, will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; and, for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in— Six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels—were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride—but soon came down again:

For saddletree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in.

So down he came: for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers were suited to their mind; When Betty, screaming, came down-stairs—"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he—"yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, In which I wear my trusty sword when I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side to make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat.

So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, but John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig.

The wind did blow—the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay; Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung— A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" as loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he? His fame soon spread around— "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!"

And still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been.

But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington these gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash of Edmonton so gay;

And there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride.

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house," they all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin—"So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong: So did he fly—which brings me to the middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see his neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him:

"What news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, but to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig: a wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear—each comedy in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit— "My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit.

"But let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face, And stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case."

Said John, "It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware."

So, turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here—you shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, for which he paid full dear! For, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, as he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, for why?—they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down Into the country far away, she pulled out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain— Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry:

"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking, as before, that Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it, too, for he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king! and Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, may I be there to see!

William Cowper.



PADDY O'RAFTHER

Paddy, in want of a dinner one day, Credit all gone, and no money to pay, Stole from a priest a fat pullet, they say, And went to confession just afther; "Your riv'rince," says Paddy, "I stole this fat hen." "What, what!" says the priest, "at your ould thricks again? Faith, you'd rather be staalin' than sayin' amen, Paddy O'Rafther!"

"Sure, you wouldn't be angry," says Pat, "if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view— For I stole it to make it a present to you, And you can absolve me afther." "Do you think," says the priest, "I'd partake of your theft? Of your seven small senses you must be bereft— You're the biggest blackguard that I know, right and left, Paddy O'Rafther."

"Then what shall I do with the pullet," says Pat, "If your riv'rince won't take it? By this and by that I don't know no more than a dog or a cat What your riv'rince would have me be afther." "Why, then," says his rev'rence, "you sin-blinded owl, Give back to the man that you stole from his fowl: For if you do not, 'twill be worse for your sowl, Paddy O'Rafther."

Says Paddy, "I ask'd him to take it—'tis thrue As this minit I'm talkin', your riv'rince, to you; But he wouldn't resaive it—so what can I do?" Says Paddy, nigh choken with laughter. "By my throth," says the priest, "but the case is absthruse; If he won't take his hen, why the man is a goose: 'Tis not the first time my advice was no use, Paddy O'Rafther."

"But, for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies— Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes; And then you may come to me afther." So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy, And the pullet between them was eaten with joy, And, says she, "'Pon my word you're the cleverest boy, Paddy O'Rafther."

Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day, And told him the fowl he had given away To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay, The loss of her spouse weeping afther. "Well, now," says the priest, "I'll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad, In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad, Paddy O'Rafther!"

Samuel Lover.



HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES

Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over:—"Very right— But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom, the surprise is quite a shock!" "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"

Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At last the landlord silence broke,— "You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder's in it?"

"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. "Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," The landlord said, with grin admiring, "What wager was it?"

"You remember It happened, Tom, in last December: In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still,—'Here she goes, and there she goes.' He lost the bet in half a minute."

"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!" Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!"

"Don't make us wait,— Begin,—the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With—"Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Hold!" said the Yankee, "Plank the ready!" The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table. "Tom! with the money let's be off!" This made the landlord only scoff.

He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair; Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of—"Here she goes, and there she goes!" While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue.

His mother happened in to see Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B——?" "When will she come, do you suppose? Son!"— "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Here!—where?"—the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes: "Son! why that steady gaze and sad? Those words,—that motion,—are you mad? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And—" "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him, and seized his arm; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go; While curled his very nose with ire That she against him should conspire; And with more furious tone arose The—"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But—"

"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus? Good Lord! what will become of us? Run for a doctor,—run, run, run,— For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Gray, with all your might!"

The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled,— "No, leeched you mean," the other said, "Clap on a blister!" roared another,— "No! cup him,"—"No, trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That—"

"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"You are all fools!" the lady said,— "The way is just to shave his head. Run! bid the barber come anon." "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!" Thus to himself while to and fro His finger perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But,—"Here she goes, and there she goes!" The barber came—"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,— So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!" But here the doctors interpose,— "A woman never—"

"There she goes!"

"A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick. He must be bled,"—"No, cup him,"—"Pills!" And all the house the uproar fills.

What means that smile? what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet will win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,—"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?" "I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose! But how is this? where are they?" "Who?" "The gentlemen,—I mean the two Came yesterday,—are they below?" "They galloped off an hour ago." "Oh, dose me! blister! shave and bleed! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"

James Nack.



THE QUAKER'S MEETING

A traveller wended the wilds among, With a purse of gold and a silver tongue; His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes, For he hated high colors—except on his nose, And he met with a lady, the story goes. Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink, And the traveller nothing was loth, I think, Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the Quaker, he grinned, for he'd very good teeth, And he asked, "Art thee going to ride on the heath?"

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid, "As to ride this heath over, I'm sadly afraid; For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound, And I wouldn't for anything I should be found, For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound."

"If that is thee own, dear," the Quaker, he said, "I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed; And I have another five hundred just now, In the padding that's under my saddle-bow, And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

The maiden she smil'd, and her rein she drew, "Your offer I'll take, but I'll not take you," A pistol she held at the Quaker's head— "Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead, 'Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow, And the Quaker was never a quaker till now! And he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride, His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she, "To take all this filthy temptation from thee, For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting, Accept from thy maiden this right-loving greeting, For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting!

"And hark! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye; Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, Remember the one that you met on the heath, Her name's Jimmy Barlow, I tell to your teeth."

"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen to me, For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see; The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend, But my master's; and truly on thee I depend, To make it appear I my trust did defend.

"So fire a few shots thro' my clothes, here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair." So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat, And then through his collar—quite close to his throat; "Now one thro' my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I vote."

"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent."— "Then!"—said Ephraim, producing his pistols, "just give My five hundred pounds back, or, as sure as you live, I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve."

Jim Barlow was diddled—and, tho' he was game, He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers, And when the whole story got into the papers, They said that "the thieves were no match for the Quakers." Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

Samuel Lover.



THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH

One of the Kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester Had in his train, a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable scrapes, And quite as many tricks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his Serene and raging Highness: Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard, Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows: his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify the knave, Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath; Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:

"Silence, base rebel! no replying! But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying," "Thy royal will be done—'tis just," Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust. "Since my last moment to assuage, Your majesty's humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

Horace Smith.



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE;

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

A Logical Story

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way, It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay,— Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening the people out of their wits— Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive— Stuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the Deacon finished his one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I'll tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot— In hub, tire, or felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thorough brace—lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will— Above or below, or within or without— And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vam" or an "I tell yeou"), He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldna' break daown; —"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke— That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum"— Last of its timber—they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips; Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linch-pin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thorough-broke bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through"— "There!" said the deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less. Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren—where were they! But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred ; it came and found The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten; "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came; Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty and fifty-five .

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know but a tree and truth. (That is a moral that runs at large; Take it—you're welcome.—No extra charge.)

First of November The Earthquake-day There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavour of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be for the deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay, "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text— Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the—Moses—was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. —First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill— And the parson was sitting upon a rock At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock— Just the hour of the earthquake shock! —What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,— All at once and nothing first— Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side; His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide. The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont—and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain— But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman—"O what was that, my daughter?" "'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman—"Now bring me my harpoon! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb; Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in, the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their wo, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that I pray you answer me why?"

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angels summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornishman said: But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."

Robert Southey.



THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and Abbot, and Prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree— In sooth, a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee, Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all! With saucy air, He perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;

And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, "The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"

The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little singing-boys—dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white: From his finger he draws His costly turquoise, And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, And hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-coloured shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps and he feels, In the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs But no! no such thing; They can't find THE RING ! And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it, Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it."

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!— Never was heard such a terrible curse! But, what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw; No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried " That's him ! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw, And turned his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! When these words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd; He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair, He hopped now about With a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint; And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!

Richard Harris Barham.



THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY

The Lady Jane was tall and slim, The Lady Jane was fair And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb, And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim, And he wore green "specs" with a tortoise shell rim, And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim, And she was uncommonly fond of him— And they were a loving pair! And wherever they went, or wherever they came, Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim; Far and wide, The people cried, All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain, To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair Lady Janel

Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood, Was a man of very contemplative mood— He would pour by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower, Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower; Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flies, And moths, were of no small account in his eyes; An "industrious flea," he'd by no means despise, While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and thighs Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size, He was wont to consider an absolute prize. Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he Abandoned himself, tout entier, to philosophy.

Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair. And a good many years the junior of him, There are some might be found entertaining a notion, That such an entire, and exclusive devotion, To that part of science, folks style entomology, Was a positive shame, And, to such a fair dame, Really demanded some sort of apology; Ever poking his nose into this, and to that— At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat, At great ugly things, all legs and wings, With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking, At grubs—when he ought of her to be thinking. But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so With the fair Lady Jane, Tout au contraire, no lady so fair, Was e'er known to wear more contented an air; And—let who would call—every day she was there Propounding receipts for some delicate fare, Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear Or distilling strong waters—or potting a hare— Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware; Enough to make less gifted visitors stare.

Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those This account of her merits must come to a close; No!—examine her conduct more closely, you'll find She by no means neglected improving her mind; For there all the while with an air quite bewitching She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching, Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen. Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride— Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers;— And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan, A more highly intelligent, worthy young man; And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting, Reading aloud, with a very grave look, Some very "wise saw," from some very good book— No matter who came, It was always the same, The Captain was reading aloud to the dame, Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf, They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.

Well it happened one day— I really can't say The particular month;—but I think 'twas in May, 'Twas I know in the spring-time, when "nature looks gay," As the poet observes—and on tree-top and spray, The dear little dickey birds carol away, That the whole of the house was thrown into affright, For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight.

It seems he had taken A light breakfast—bacon, An egg, a little broiled haddock—at most A round and a half of some hot buttered toast, With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast. And then, let me see,— He had two,—perhaps three Cups, with sugar and cream, of strong gunpowder tea,— But no matter for that— He had called for his hat, With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat, And his "specs" with the tortoise-shell rim, and his cane. With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain His steps in his walk, or to poke in the shrubs Or the grass, when unearthing his worms or his grubs; Thus armed he set out on a ramble—a-lack! He set out, poor dear soul!—but he never came back! "First dinner bell" rang Out its euphonous clang At five—folks kept early hours then—and the "last" Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past. Still the master was absent—the cook came and said, he Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready, That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat! Said the lady, "Dish up! Let the meal be served straight, And let two or three slices be put on a plate, And kept hot for Sir Thomas."—Captain Dugald said grace, Then set himself down in Sir Thomas' place.

Wearily, wearily, all that night, That live-long night did the hours go by; And the Lady Jane, In grief and pain, She sat herself down to cry! And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side, Though I really can't say that he actually cried, At least had a tear in his eye! As much as can well be expected, perhaps, From "very young fellows," for very "old chaps." And if he had said What he'd got in his head, 'Twould have been, "Poor old Duffer, he's certainly dead!" The morning dawned—and the next—and the next And all in the mansion were still perplexed; No knocker fell, His approach to tell; Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell.

Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree, And the meads smiled green as green may be, And the dear little dickey birds caroled with glee, And the lambs in the park skipped merry and free.— Without, all was joy and harmony!

And thus 'twill be—nor long the day— Ere we, like him, shall pass away! Yon sun that now our bosoms warms, Shall shine—but shine on other forms; Yon grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers Us now, shall sound on other ears; The joyous lambs, as now, shall play, But other eyes its sports survey; The stream we loved shall roll as fair, The flowery sweets, the trim parterre, Shall scent, as now, the ambient air; The tree whose bending branches bear The one loved name—shall yet be there— But where the hand that carved it? Where?

These were hinted to me as the very ideas Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane, As she walked on the esplanade to and again, With Captain MacBride, Of course at her side, Who could not look quite so forlorn—though he tried, An "idea" in fact, had got into his head, That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead, It might be no bad "spec" to be there in his stead, And by simply contriving, in due time, to wed A lady who was young and fair, A lady slim and tall, To set himself down in comfort there, The lord of Tapton Hall.

Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent, And nobody knows how much money's been spent, Yet no one's been found to say which way he went! Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried Every plan we could hit on and had him well cried ' Missing !! Stolen or Strayed, Lost or Mislaid, A Gentleman ; middle-aged, sober and staid; Stoops slightly; and when he left home was arrayed In a sad-colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed; Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim, And a hat rather low crowned, and broad in the brim. Whoe'er shall bear, Or send him with care, (Right side uppermost) home; or shall give notice where Said middle-aged Gentleman is; or shall state Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate, To the man at the turnpike, called Tappington Gate, Shall receive a reward of Five Pounds for his trouble. N.B. If defunct, the Reward will be double!!'

"Had he been above ground, He must have been found. No; doubtless he's shot—or he's hanged—or he's drowned! Then his widow—ay! ay! But what will folks say?— To address her at once, at so early a day. Well—what then—who cares!—let 'em say what they may." When a man has decided As Captain MacBride did, And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery. He began on the instant, and vowed that her eyes Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies; That her lips were like roses, her cheeks were like lilies; Her breath had the odor of daffadowndillies!— With a thousand more compliments, equally true, Expressed in similitudes equally new! Then his left arm he placed Round her jimp, taper waist—

Ere she fixed to repulse or return his embrace, Up came running a man at a deuce of a pace, With that very peculiar expression of face Which always betokens dismay or disaster, Crying out 'twas the gard'ner "Oh, ma'am! we've found master!!" "Where! where?" screamed the lady; and echo screamed, "Where?" The man couldn't say "there!" He had no breath to spare, But gasping for breath he could only respond By pointing be pointed, alas! TO THE POND . 'Twas e'en so; poor dear Knight, with his "specs" and his hat, He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that; When close to the side of the bank, he espied An uncommon fine tadpole, remarkably fat! He stooped; and he thought her His own; he had caught her! Got hold of her tail and to land almost brought her, When he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water!

The Lady Jane was tall and slim, The Lady Jane was fair, Alas! for Sir Thomas!—she grieved for him, As she saw two serving men sturdy of limb, His body between them bear; She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and cried, For of sorrow brimful was her cup; She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down and died, If Captain MacBride Hadn't been by her side With the gardener;—they both their assistance supplied, And managed to hold her up. But when she "comes to," Oh! 'tis shocking to view The sight which the corpse reveals! Sir Thomas' body, It looked so odd—he Was half eaten up by the eels!

His waistcoat and hose, And the rest of his clothes, Were all gnawed through and through; And out of each shoe, An eel they drew; And from each of his pockets they pulled out two! And the gardener himself had secreted a few, As well might be supposed he'd do, For, when he came running to give the alarm, He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.

Good Father John was summoned anon; Holy water was sprinkled and little bells tinkled, And tapers were lighted, And incense ignited, And masses were sung, and masses were said, All day, for the quiet repose of the dead, And all night no one thought about going to bed.

But Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair, And ere morning came, that winsome dame Had made up her mind, or—what's much the same— Had thought about, once more "changing her name," And she said with a pensive air, To Thompson the valet, while taking away, When supper was over, the cloth and the tray, "Eels a many I've ate; but any So good ne'er tasted before!— They're a fish too, of which I'm remarkably fond— Go—pop Sir Thomas again in the pond— Poor dear!—he'll catch us some more."

MORAL

All middle-aged gentlemen let me advise, If you're married, and hav'n't got very good eyes, Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies. If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoise-shell rim, And don't go near the water—unless you can swim. Married ladies, especially such as are fair, Tall and slim, I would next recommend to beware, How, on losing one spouse, they give way to despair, But let them reflect, there are fish, and no doubt on't, As good in the river, as ever came out on't.

Richard Harris Barham.



AN EASTERN QUESTION

My William was a soldier, and he says to me, says he, "My Susan, I must sail across the South Pacific sea; For we've got to go to Egypt for to fight the old Khedive; But when he's dead I'll marry you, as sure as I'm alive!"

'Twere hard for me to part with him; he couldn't read nor write, So I never had love letters for to keep my memory bright; But Jim, who is our footman, took the Daily Telegraph, And told me William's reg-i-ment mowed down the foe like chaff.

So every day Jim come to me to read the Eastern news, And used to bring me bouquets, which I scarcely could refuse; Till one fine day it happened—how it happened, goodness knows,— He put his arm around me and he started to propose.

I put his hand from off me, and I said in thrilling tones, "I like you, Jim, but never will I give up William Jones; It ain't no good your talking, for my heart is firm and fixed, For William is engaged to me, and naught shall come betwixt."

So Jim he turned a ghastly pale to find there was no hope; And made remarks about a pond, and razors, and a rope; The other servants pitied him, and Rosie said as much; But Rosie was too flighty, and he didn't care for such.

The weeks and months passed slowly, till I heard the Eastern war Was over, and my William would soon be home once more; And I was proud and happy for I knew that I could say I'd been true to my sweet William all the years he'd been away.

Says Jim to me, "I love you, Sue, you know full well I do, And evermore whilst I draw breath I vow I will be true; But my feelings are too sensitive, I really couldn't stand A-seeing of that soldier taking hold your little hand.

"So I've made my mind up finally to throw myself away; There's Rosie loves me truly, and no more I'll say her nay; I've bought a hat on purpose, and I'm going to hire a ring, And I've borrowed father's wedding suit that looks the very thing."

So Jim he married Rosie, just the very day before My William's reg-i-ment was due to reach their native shore; I was there to see him landed and to give him welcome home, And take him to my arms from which he never more should roam.

But I couldn't see my William, for the men were all alike, With their red coats and their rifles, and their helmets with a spike; So I curtseys to a sergeant who was smiling very kind, "Where's William Jones?" I asks him, "if so be you wouldn't mind?"

Then he calls a gawky, red-haired chap, that stood good six-feet two: "Here, Jones," he cries, "this lady here's enquiring after you." "Not me!" I says, "I want a man who 'listed from our Square; With a small moustache, but growing fast, and bright brown curly hair."

The sergeant wiped his eye, and took his helmet from his head, "I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said, "that William Jones is dead; He died from getting sunstroke, and we envied him his lot, For we were melted to our bones, the climate was that hot!"

So that's how 'tis that I'm condemned to lead a single life, For the sergeant, who was struck with me, already had a wife; And Jim is tied to Rosie, and can't get himself untied, Whilst the man that I was faithful to has been and gone and died!

H. M. Paull.



MY AUNT'S SPECTRE

They tell me (but I really can't Imagine such a rum thing), It is the phantom of my Aunt, Who ran away or something.

It is the very worst of bores: (My Aunt was most delightful). It prowls about the corridors, And utters noises frightful.

At midnight through the rooms It glides, Behaving very coolly, Our hearts all throb against our sides The lights are burning bluely.

The lady, in her living hours, Was the most charming vixen That ever this poor sex of ours Delighted to play tricks on.

Yes, that's her portrait on the wall, In quaint old-fangled bodice: Her eyes are blue—her waist is small— A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess! A fine patrician shape, to suit My dear old father's sister— Lips softly curved, a dainty foot: Happy the man that kissed her!

Light hair of crisp irregular curl Over fair shoulders scattered— Egad, she was a pretty girl, Unless Sir Thomas flattered!

And who the deuce, in these bright days, Could possibly expect her To take to dissipated ways, And plague us as a spectre?

Mortimer Collins.



CASEY AT THE BAT

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day, The score stood four to six with but an inning left to play. And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast. For they thought if only Casey could get a whack at that, They'd put up even money with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much despised Blakey tore the cover off the ball, And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain top and rattled in the dell, It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face, And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt, 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt; And while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip— Defiance gleamed from Casey's eye—a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— "That hain't my style," said Casey—"Strike one," the Umpire said. From the bleachers black with people there rose a sullen roar, Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore, "Kill him! kill the Umpire!" shouted some one from the stand— And it's likely they'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone, He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the game go on; He signalled to the pitcher and again the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it and the Umpire said "Strike two." "Fraud!" yelled the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud," But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold; they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey would not let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip; his teeth are clenched with hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has "Struck Out."