AFTER EMERSON

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere."What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claimThe butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name!"That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;Then said our Queen—"Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?His name—his race?"—"An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball."Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.But see, the other champion comes!"—Then rang the startled airWith shouts of "Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there."And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—"That joust will soon be done:My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!""Done," quoth the Brougham,—"And done with you!" "Now minstrels, are you ready?"Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—"You'd better both sit steady.Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!""Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son."Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!""It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe."Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!"They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the baysAnd wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!William Aytoun.

Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—

How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!

On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,

And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere."What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claimThe butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name!"

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,

The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.

"What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim

The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name!"

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;Then said our Queen—"Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?His name—his race?"—"An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,

On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;

Then said our Queen—"Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?

His name—his race?"—"An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.

"Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.But see, the other champion comes!"—Then rang the startled airWith shouts of "Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there."

"Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,

And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.

But see, the other champion comes!"—Then rang the startled air

With shouts of "Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there."

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—"That joust will soon be done:My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!"

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,

Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.

Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—"That joust will soon be done:

My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!"

"Done," quoth the Brougham,—"And done with you!" "Now minstrels, are you ready?"Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—"You'd better both sit steady.Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!""Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"

"Done," quoth the Brougham,—"And done with you!" "Now minstrels, are you ready?"

Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—"You'd better both sit steady.

Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!"

"Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,

So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;

His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!

Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son."Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!""It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"

"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;

Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son.

"Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!"

"It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe."Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!"

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe.

"Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:

A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,

Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!"

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the baysAnd wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!William Aytoun.

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays

And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;

And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,

You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!

William Aytoun.

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,Or he—the mutton—thinks he's slain,Why, "troth is truth," the eater says—"I'll come, and cut and come again."To hungry wolves that on him leerMutton is cheap, and sheep the same,No famished god would at him sneer—To famine, chops are more than fame.Who hiss at him, him but assuresThat they are geese, but wanting wings—Your coat is his whose life is yours,And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,Come taste, ye lovers of the good—Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.Anonymous.

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,Or he—the mutton—thinks he's slain,Why, "troth is truth," the eater says—"I'll come, and cut and come again."

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,

Or he—the mutton—thinks he's slain,

Why, "troth is truth," the eater says—

"I'll come, and cut and come again."

To hungry wolves that on him leerMutton is cheap, and sheep the same,No famished god would at him sneer—To famine, chops are more than fame.

To hungry wolves that on him leer

Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same,

No famished god would at him sneer—

To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assuresThat they are geese, but wanting wings—Your coat is his whose life is yours,And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Who hiss at him, him but assures

That they are geese, but wanting wings—

Your coat is his whose life is yours,

And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,Come taste, ye lovers of the good—Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.Anonymous.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,

And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,

Come taste, ye lovers of the good—

Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.

Anonymous.

"WILL you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"You can really have no notion how delightful it will beWhen they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance—Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance."What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied."There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.The further off from England the nearer is to France—Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"Lewis Carroll.

"WILL you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,

"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.

See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!

They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will beWhen they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance—Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be

When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"

But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance—

Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied."There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.The further off from England the nearer is to France—Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"Lewis Carroll.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.

"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.

The further off from England the nearer is to France—

Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

Lewis Carroll.

IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavorTo discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet."To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teachesThat the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea's "size":P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry—O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!To be photograph'd—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one—Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore herTo say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!Then, the days of courtship over, with yourWIFEto start for DoverOr Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls;For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovelFolkspreferin fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover'sEgg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant,As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.C. S. Calverley.

IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,

And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;

When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor

To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.

"To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teachesThat the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.

"To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teaches

That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,

Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,

An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.

Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.

Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,

Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:

Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,

When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.

Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea's "size":P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.

Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;

Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea's "size":

P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,

And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.

Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry—O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!To be photograph'd—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!

Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry—

O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!

To be photograph'd—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—

Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!

Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one—Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore herTo say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!

Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one—

Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;

And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her

To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!

Then, the days of courtship over, with yourWIFEto start for DoverOr Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls;For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovelFolkspreferin fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

Then, the days of courtship over, with yourWIFEto start for Dover

Or Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls;

For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovel

Folkspreferin fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover'sEgg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant,As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.C. S. Calverley.

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's

Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,

Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant,

As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

C. S. Calverley.

'TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughsThat shadowed her so finely;It was the hair that swept her brows,And framed her face divinely;Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,The spirit was ensphered in,That took you with such swift surprise,Provided you had peered in.Her velvet foot amid the mossAnd on the daisies patted,As, querulous with sense of loss,It tore the herbage matted."And come he early, come he late,"She saith, "it will undo me;The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fateAlready quivers through me."When I beheld his red-roan steed,I knew what aim impelled it.And that dim scarf of silver brede,I guessed for whom he held it.I recked not, while he flaunted by,Of Love's relentless vi'lenceYet o'er me crashed the summer sky,In thunders of blue silence."His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,But left behind their lava;What should have been my woman's mailGrew jellied as guava.I looked him proud, but 'neath my prideI felt a boneless tremor;He was the Beér, I descried,And I was but the Seemer!"Ah, how to be what then I seemed,And bid him seem that is so!We always tangle threads we dreamed,And contravene our bliss so,I see the red-roan steed again!He looks as something sought he;Why, hoity-toity!—heis fain,SoI'll be cold and haughty!"Bayard Taylor.

'TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughs

That shadowed her so finely;

It was the hair that swept her brows,

And framed her face divinely;

Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,

The spirit was ensphered in,

That took you with such swift surprise,

Provided you had peered in.

Her velvet foot amid the mossAnd on the daisies patted,As, querulous with sense of loss,It tore the herbage matted."And come he early, come he late,"She saith, "it will undo me;The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fateAlready quivers through me.

Her velvet foot amid the moss

And on the daisies patted,

As, querulous with sense of loss,

It tore the herbage matted.

"And come he early, come he late,"

She saith, "it will undo me;

The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate

Already quivers through me.

"When I beheld his red-roan steed,I knew what aim impelled it.And that dim scarf of silver brede,I guessed for whom he held it.I recked not, while he flaunted by,Of Love's relentless vi'lenceYet o'er me crashed the summer sky,In thunders of blue silence.

"When I beheld his red-roan steed,

I knew what aim impelled it.

And that dim scarf of silver brede,

I guessed for whom he held it.

I recked not, while he flaunted by,

Of Love's relentless vi'lence

Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky,

In thunders of blue silence.

"His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,But left behind their lava;What should have been my woman's mailGrew jellied as guava.I looked him proud, but 'neath my prideI felt a boneless tremor;He was the Beér, I descried,And I was but the Seemer!

"His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,

But left behind their lava;

What should have been my woman's mail

Grew jellied as guava.

I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride

I felt a boneless tremor;

He was the Beér, I descried,

And I was but the Seemer!

"Ah, how to be what then I seemed,And bid him seem that is so!We always tangle threads we dreamed,And contravene our bliss so,I see the red-roan steed again!He looks as something sought he;Why, hoity-toity!—heis fain,SoI'll be cold and haughty!"Bayard Taylor.

"Ah, how to be what then I seemed,

And bid him seem that is so!

We always tangle threads we dreamed,

And contravene our bliss so,

I see the red-roan steed again!

He looks as something sought he;

Why, hoity-toity!—heis fain,

SoI'll be cold and haughty!"

Bayard Taylor.

HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.Of the skin he made him mittens,Made them with the fur side inside,Made them with the skin side outside.He, to get the warm side inside,Put the inside skin side outside;He, to get the cold side outside,Put the warm side fur side inside.That's why he put the fur side inside,Why he put the skin side outside,Why he turned them inside outside.Anonymous.

HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.

Of the skin he made him mittens,

Made them with the fur side inside,

Made them with the skin side outside.

He, to get the warm side inside,

Put the inside skin side outside;

He, to get the cold side outside,

Put the warm side fur side inside.

That's why he put the fur side inside,

Why he put the skin side outside,

Why he turned them inside outside.

Anonymous.

THE shadows of night were a-comin' down swift,And the dazzlin' snow lay drift on drift,As thro' a village a youth did go,A-carryin' a flag with this motto,—Higher!O'er a forehead high curled copious hair,His nose a Roman, complexion fair,O'er an eagle eye an auburn lash,And he never stopped shoutin' thro' his moustache!"Higher!"He saw thro' the windows as he kept gettin' upperA number of families sittin' at supper,But he eyes the slippery rocks very keenAnd fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein'—"Higher!""Take care you there!" said an old woman; "stop!It's blowing gales up there on top—You'll tumble off on t'other side!"But the hurryin' stranger loud replied,"Higher!""Oh! don't you go up such a shocking night,Come sleep on my lap," said a maiden bright.On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,"Higher!""Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!"Sayin' which the farmer went home to bedAnd the singular voice replied overhead,"Higher!"About quarter past six the next afternoon,A man accidentally goin' up soon,Heard spoken above him as often as twiceThe very same word in a very weak voice,"Higher!"And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—He was slow gettin' up, the road bein' uneven—Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,Still clutchin' the flag with the motto—Higher!Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,The lamp of life being decidedly out,On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin'!And there was no more use for him to be sayin'"Higher!"Anonymous.

THE shadows of night were a-comin' down swift,And the dazzlin' snow lay drift on drift,As thro' a village a youth did go,A-carryin' a flag with this motto,—Higher!

THE shadows of night were a-comin' down swift,

And the dazzlin' snow lay drift on drift,

As thro' a village a youth did go,

A-carryin' a flag with this motto,—

Higher!

O'er a forehead high curled copious hair,His nose a Roman, complexion fair,O'er an eagle eye an auburn lash,And he never stopped shoutin' thro' his moustache!"Higher!"

O'er a forehead high curled copious hair,

His nose a Roman, complexion fair,

O'er an eagle eye an auburn lash,

And he never stopped shoutin' thro' his moustache!

"Higher!"

He saw thro' the windows as he kept gettin' upperA number of families sittin' at supper,But he eyes the slippery rocks very keenAnd fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein'—"Higher!"

He saw thro' the windows as he kept gettin' upper

A number of families sittin' at supper,

But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen

And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein'—

"Higher!"

"Take care you there!" said an old woman; "stop!It's blowing gales up there on top—You'll tumble off on t'other side!"But the hurryin' stranger loud replied,"Higher!"

"Take care you there!" said an old woman; "stop!

It's blowing gales up there on top—

You'll tumble off on t'other side!"

But the hurryin' stranger loud replied,

"Higher!"

"Oh! don't you go up such a shocking night,Come sleep on my lap," said a maiden bright.On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,"Higher!"

"Oh! don't you go up such a shocking night,

Come sleep on my lap," said a maiden bright.

On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,

But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,

"Higher!"

"Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!"Sayin' which the farmer went home to bedAnd the singular voice replied overhead,"Higher!"

"Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!

Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!"

Sayin' which the farmer went home to bed

And the singular voice replied overhead,

"Higher!"

About quarter past six the next afternoon,A man accidentally goin' up soon,Heard spoken above him as often as twiceThe very same word in a very weak voice,"Higher!"

About quarter past six the next afternoon,

A man accidentally goin' up soon,

Heard spoken above him as often as twice

The very same word in a very weak voice,

"Higher!"

And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—He was slow gettin' up, the road bein' uneven—Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,Still clutchin' the flag with the motto—Higher!

And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—

He was slow gettin' up, the road bein' uneven—

Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,

Still clutchin' the flag with the motto—

Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,The lamp of life being decidedly out,On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin'!And there was no more use for him to be sayin'"Higher!"Anonymous.

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,

The lamp of life being decidedly out,

On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin'!

And there was no more use for him to be sayin'

"Higher!"

Anonymous.

THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,One young man walkee, no can stop,Colo makee; icee makee;He got flag; chop b'long welly culio, see—Topside Galah!He too muchee folly; one piecee eyeLookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;He talkee largee, talkee stlong,To muchee culio; alla same gong—Topside Galah!Inside any house he can see light;Any piecee loom got fire all light;He lookee see plenty ice more high,Inside he mouf he plenty cly—Topside Galah!"No can walkee!" olo man speakee he;"Bimeby lain come, no can see;Hab got water welly wide!"Maskee, mi must go topside—Topside Galah!"Man-man," one galo talkee he,"What for you go topside look see?""Nother teem," he makee plenty cly,Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—Topside Galah!"Take care that spilum tlee, young man;Take care that icee!" he no man-manThat coolie chin-chin he good-night;He talkee "mi can go all light"—Topside Galah!Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,No see any man, he plenty fear,Cause some man talkee, he can hear—Topside Galah!Young man makee die; one largee dog seeToo muchee bobbery, findee he.Hand too muchee colo, inside can stopAlla same piecee flag, got culio chop—Topside Galah!Anonymous.

THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,One young man walkee, no can stop,Colo makee; icee makee;He got flag; chop b'long welly culio, see—Topside Galah!

THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,

One young man walkee, no can stop,

Colo makee; icee makee;

He got flag; chop b'long welly culio, see—

Topside Galah!

He too muchee folly; one piecee eyeLookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;He talkee largee, talkee stlong,To muchee culio; alla same gong—Topside Galah!

He too muchee folly; one piecee eye

Lookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;

He talkee largee, talkee stlong,

To muchee culio; alla same gong—

Topside Galah!

Inside any house he can see light;Any piecee loom got fire all light;He lookee see plenty ice more high,Inside he mouf he plenty cly—Topside Galah!

Inside any house he can see light;

Any piecee loom got fire all light;

He lookee see plenty ice more high,

Inside he mouf he plenty cly—

Topside Galah!

"No can walkee!" olo man speakee he;"Bimeby lain come, no can see;Hab got water welly wide!"Maskee, mi must go topside—Topside Galah!

"No can walkee!" olo man speakee he;

"Bimeby lain come, no can see;

Hab got water welly wide!"

Maskee, mi must go topside—

Topside Galah!

"Man-man," one galo talkee he,"What for you go topside look see?""Nother teem," he makee plenty cly,Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—Topside Galah!

"Man-man," one galo talkee he,

"What for you go topside look see?"

"Nother teem," he makee plenty cly,

Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—

Topside Galah!

"Take care that spilum tlee, young man;Take care that icee!" he no man-manThat coolie chin-chin he good-night;He talkee "mi can go all light"—Topside Galah!

"Take care that spilum tlee, young man;

Take care that icee!" he no man-man

That coolie chin-chin he good-night;

He talkee "mi can go all light"—

Topside Galah!

Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,No see any man, he plenty fear,Cause some man talkee, he can hear—Topside Galah!

Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,

Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,

No see any man, he plenty fear,

Cause some man talkee, he can hear—

Topside Galah!

Young man makee die; one largee dog seeToo muchee bobbery, findee he.Hand too muchee colo, inside can stopAlla same piecee flag, got culio chop—Topside Galah!Anonymous.

Young man makee die; one largee dog see

Too muchee bobbery, findee he.

Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop

Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop—

Topside Galah!

Anonymous.

THE swampy State of IllinoisContained a greenish sort of boy,Who read with idiotic joy—"Excelsior!"He tarried not to eat or drink,But put a flag of lightish pink,And traced on it in violet ink—Excelsior!Though what he meant by that absurd,Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,Has not been placed upon record—Excelsior!The characters were very plain,In German text, yet he was fainWith greater clearness to explain—Excelsior!And so he ran, this stupid wight,And hollered out with all his might,(As to a person out of sight)—"Excelsior!"And everybody thought the ladWithin an ace of being mad,Who cried in accents stern and sad—"Excelsior!""Come to my arms," the maiden cried;The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,And then appropriately replied—"Excelsior!"The evening sun is in the sky,But still the creature mounts on highAnd shouts (nor gives a reason why)"Excelsior!"And ere he gains the topmost cragHis feeble legs begin to lag;Unsteadily he holds the flag—Excelsior!Now P. C. Nab is on his track!He puts him in an empty sack,And brings him home upon his back—Excelsior!Nab takes him to a lumber store,They toss him in and lock the door,Which only makes him bawl the more—"Excelsior!"Anonymous.

THE swampy State of IllinoisContained a greenish sort of boy,Who read with idiotic joy—"Excelsior!"

THE swampy State of Illinois

Contained a greenish sort of boy,

Who read with idiotic joy—

"Excelsior!"

He tarried not to eat or drink,But put a flag of lightish pink,And traced on it in violet ink—Excelsior!

He tarried not to eat or drink,

But put a flag of lightish pink,

And traced on it in violet ink—

Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,Has not been placed upon record—Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,

Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,

Has not been placed upon record—

Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,In German text, yet he was fainWith greater clearness to explain—Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,

In German text, yet he was fain

With greater clearness to explain—

Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight,And hollered out with all his might,(As to a person out of sight)—"Excelsior!"

And so he ran, this stupid wight,

And hollered out with all his might,

(As to a person out of sight)—

"Excelsior!"

And everybody thought the ladWithin an ace of being mad,Who cried in accents stern and sad—"Excelsior!"

And everybody thought the lad

Within an ace of being mad,

Who cried in accents stern and sad—

"Excelsior!"

"Come to my arms," the maiden cried;The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,And then appropriately replied—"Excelsior!"

"Come to my arms," the maiden cried;

The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,

And then appropriately replied—

"Excelsior!"

The evening sun is in the sky,But still the creature mounts on highAnd shouts (nor gives a reason why)"Excelsior!"

The evening sun is in the sky,

But still the creature mounts on high

And shouts (nor gives a reason why)

"Excelsior!"

And ere he gains the topmost cragHis feeble legs begin to lag;Unsteadily he holds the flag—Excelsior!

And ere he gains the topmost crag

His feeble legs begin to lag;

Unsteadily he holds the flag—

Excelsior!

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!He puts him in an empty sack,And brings him home upon his back—Excelsior!

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!

He puts him in an empty sack,

And brings him home upon his back—

Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store,They toss him in and lock the door,Which only makes him bawl the more—"Excelsior!"Anonymous.

Nab takes him to a lumber store,

They toss him in and lock the door,

Which only makes him bawl the more—

"Excelsior!"

Anonymous.

THE day is done, and darknessFrom the wing of night is loosed,As a feather is wafted downward,From a chicken going to roost.I see the lights of the baker,Gleam through the rain and mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,That I cannot well resist.A feeling of sadness and longingThat is not like being sick,And resembles sorrow onlyAs a brickbat resembles a brick.Come, get for me some supper,—A good and regular meal—That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the pain I feel.Not from the pastry bakers,Not from the shops for cake;I wouldn't give a farthingFor all that they can make.For, like the soup at dinner,Such things would but suggestSome dishes more substantial,And to-night I want the best.Go to some honest butcher,Whose beef is fresh and nice,As any they have in the city,And get a liberal slice.Such things through days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,For sad and desperate feelings,Are wonderful remedies.They have an astonishing powerTo aid and reinforce,And come like the "finally, brethren,"That follows a long discourse.Then get me a tender sirloinFrom off the bench or hook.And lend to its sterling goodnessThe science of the cook.And the night shall be filled with comfort,And the cares with which it begunShall fold up their blankets like Indians,And silently cut and run.Phœbe Cary.

THE day is done, and darknessFrom the wing of night is loosed,As a feather is wafted downward,From a chicken going to roost.

THE day is done, and darkness

From the wing of night is loosed,

As a feather is wafted downward,

From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker,Gleam through the rain and mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,That I cannot well resist.

I see the lights of the baker,

Gleam through the rain and mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longingThat is not like being sick,And resembles sorrow onlyAs a brickbat resembles a brick.

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not like being sick,

And resembles sorrow only

As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,—A good and regular meal—That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the pain I feel.

Come, get for me some supper,—

A good and regular meal—

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers,Not from the shops for cake;I wouldn't give a farthingFor all that they can make.

Not from the pastry bakers,

Not from the shops for cake;

I wouldn't give a farthing

For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,Such things would but suggestSome dishes more substantial,And to-night I want the best.

For, like the soup at dinner,

Such things would but suggest

Some dishes more substantial,

And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,Whose beef is fresh and nice,As any they have in the city,And get a liberal slice.

Go to some honest butcher,

Whose beef is fresh and nice,

As any they have in the city,

And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,For sad and desperate feelings,Are wonderful remedies.

Such things through days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

For sad and desperate feelings,

Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing powerTo aid and reinforce,And come like the "finally, brethren,"That follows a long discourse.

They have an astonishing power

To aid and reinforce,

And come like the "finally, brethren,"

That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloinFrom off the bench or hook.And lend to its sterling goodnessThe science of the cook.

Then get me a tender sirloin

From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness

The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,And the cares with which it begunShall fold up their blankets like Indians,And silently cut and run.Phœbe Cary.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,

And the cares with which it begun

Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,

And silently cut and run.

Phœbe Cary.

TELL me not, in idle jingle,Marriage is an empty dream,For the girl is dead that's single,And things are not what they seem.Married life is real, earnest,Single blessedness a fib,Taken from man, to man returnest,Has been spoken of the rib.Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowNearer brings the wedding-day.Life is long, and youth is fleeting,And our hearts, if there we search,Still like steady drums are beatingAnxious marches to the Church.In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle;Be a woman, be a wife!Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act—act in the living Present.Heart within, and Man ahead!Lives of married folks remind usWe can live our lives as well,And, departing, leave behind us;—Such examples as will tell;—Such examples, that another,Sailing far from Hymen's port,A forlorn, unmarried brother,Seeing, shall take heart, and court.Let us then be up and doing,With the heart and head begin;Still achieving, still pursùing,Learn to labor, and to win!Phœbe Cary.

TELL me not, in idle jingle,Marriage is an empty dream,For the girl is dead that's single,And things are not what they seem.

TELL me not, in idle jingle,

Marriage is an empty dream,

For the girl is dead that's single,

And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest,Single blessedness a fib,Taken from man, to man returnest,Has been spoken of the rib.

Married life is real, earnest,

Single blessedness a fib,

Taken from man, to man returnest,

Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowNearer brings the wedding-day.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Nearer brings the wedding-day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting,And our hearts, if there we search,Still like steady drums are beatingAnxious marches to the Church.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting,

And our hearts, if there we search,

Still like steady drums are beating

Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle;Be a woman, be a wife!

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle;

Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act—act in the living Present.Heart within, and Man ahead!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act—act in the living Present.

Heart within, and Man ahead!

Lives of married folks remind usWe can live our lives as well,And, departing, leave behind us;—Such examples as will tell;—

Lives of married folks remind us

We can live our lives as well,

And, departing, leave behind us;—

Such examples as will tell;—

Such examples, that another,Sailing far from Hymen's port,A forlorn, unmarried brother,Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Such examples, that another,

Sailing far from Hymen's port,

A forlorn, unmarried brother,

Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing,With the heart and head begin;Still achieving, still pursùing,Learn to labor, and to win!Phœbe Cary.

Let us then be up and doing,

With the heart and head begin;

Still achieving, still pursùing,

Learn to labor, and to win!

Phœbe Cary.

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,In a park not far from the town;They stood on the bridge at midnight,Because they didn't sit down.The moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church spire;The moon rose o'er the cityAnd kept on rising higher.How often, oh, how often!They whispered words so soft;How often, oh, how often;How often, oh, how oft!Ben King.

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,In a park not far from the town;They stood on the bridge at midnight,Because they didn't sit down.

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,

In a park not far from the town;

They stood on the bridge at midnight,

Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church spire;The moon rose o'er the cityAnd kept on rising higher.

The moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church spire;

The moon rose o'er the city

And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often!They whispered words so soft;How often, oh, how often;How often, oh, how oft!Ben King.

How often, oh, how often!

They whispered words so soft;

How often, oh, how often;

How often, oh, how oft!

Ben King.

SOMEWHAT back from the village streetStands the old fashioned country seat.Across its antique porticoTall poplar trees their shadows throw.And there throughout the livelong day,Jemima plays the pi-a-na.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.In the front parlor there it stands,And there Jemima plies her hands,While her papa, beneath his cloak,Mutters and groans: "This is no joke!"And swears to himself and sighs, alas!With sorrowful voice to all who pass.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.Through days of death and days of birthShe plays as if she owned the earth.Through every swift vicissitudeShe drums as if it did her good,And still she sits from morn till nightAnd plunks away with main and mightDo, re, mi,Mi, re, do.In that mansion used to beFree-hearted hospitality;But that was many years beforeJemima dallied with the score.When she began her daily plunk,Into their graves the neighbors sunk.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.To other worlds they've long since fled,All thankful that they're safely dead.They stood the racket while aliveUntil Jemima rose at five.And then they laid their burdens down,And one and all they skipped the town.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.Tom Masson.

SOMEWHAT back from the village street

Stands the old fashioned country seat.

Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.

And there throughout the livelong day,

Jemima plays the pi-a-na.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,And there Jemima plies her hands,While her papa, beneath his cloak,Mutters and groans: "This is no joke!"And swears to himself and sighs, alas!With sorrowful voice to all who pass.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,

And there Jemima plies her hands,

While her papa, beneath his cloak,

Mutters and groans: "This is no joke!"

And swears to himself and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birthShe plays as if she owned the earth.Through every swift vicissitudeShe drums as if it did her good,And still she sits from morn till nightAnd plunks away with main and mightDo, re, mi,Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth

She plays as if she owned the earth.

Through every swift vicissitude

She drums as if it did her good,

And still she sits from morn till night

And plunks away with main and might

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to beFree-hearted hospitality;But that was many years beforeJemima dallied with the score.When she began her daily plunk,Into their graves the neighbors sunk.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted hospitality;

But that was many years before

Jemima dallied with the score.

When she began her daily plunk,

Into their graves the neighbors sunk.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they've long since fled,All thankful that they're safely dead.They stood the racket while aliveUntil Jemima rose at five.And then they laid their burdens down,And one and all they skipped the town.Do, re, mi,Mi, re, do.Tom Masson.

To other worlds they've long since fled,

All thankful that they're safely dead.

They stood the racket while alive

Until Jemima rose at five.

And then they laid their burdens down,

And one and all they skipped the town.

Do, re, mi,

Mi, re, do.

Tom Masson.

ISHOT a partridge in the air,It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;For just as it dropped, with my rightI stopped another in its flight.I killed a pheasant in the copse,It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;For though a pheasant's flight is strong,A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,I found the birds in jelly lie;And the pheasant at a fortnight's end,I found again in the carte of a friend.Punch.

ISHOT a partridge in the air,It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;For just as it dropped, with my rightI stopped another in its flight.

ISHOT a partridge in the air,

It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;

For just as it dropped, with my right

I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;For though a pheasant's flight is strong,A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,

It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;

For though a pheasant's flight is strong,

A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,I found the birds in jelly lie;And the pheasant at a fortnight's end,I found again in the carte of a friend.Punch.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,

I found the birds in jelly lie;

And the pheasant at a fortnight's end,

I found again in the carte of a friend.

Punch.

(A Ballad of New England life)

WHERE the MoosatockmagunticPours its waters in the Skuntic,Met, along the forest sideHiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.She, a maiden fair and dapper,He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,Hunting beaver, mink, and skunkIn the woodlands of Squeedunk.She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,Walked beside the Skuntic waterGathering, in her apron wet,Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet."Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,When a lovyer bold and true,Only waits to gather you?""Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,I prefer a man more tasty;Leastways, one to please me wellShould not have a beasty smell.""Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,"Mind and heart alike are cancered;Jest look here! these peltries giveCash, wherefrom a pair may live."I, you think, am but a vagrant,Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank—I've a handsome sum in bank."Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,And, before the year was over,Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,Bought a cape, against the cold.Black and thick the furry cape was,Of a stylish cut the shape was;And the girls, in all the town,Envied Huldah up and down.Then at last, one winter morning,Hiram came without a warning."Either," said he, "you are blind,Huldah, or you've changed your mind."Me you snub for trapping varmints,Yet you take the skins for garments;Since you wear the skunk and mink,There's no harm in me, I think.""Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,Hiram; I accept the moral,Now the fashion's so I guessI can't hardly do no less."Thus the trouble all was overOf the love of Hiram Hover.Thus he made sweet Huldah HydeHuldah Hover as his bride.Love employs, with equal favor,Things of good and evil savor;That which first appeared to part,Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.Under one impartial banner,Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,Draw, from every beast they snare,Comfort for a wedded pair!Bayard Taylor.

WHERE the MoosatockmagunticPours its waters in the Skuntic,Met, along the forest sideHiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic

Pours its waters in the Skuntic,

Met, along the forest side

Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper,He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,Hunting beaver, mink, and skunkIn the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, a maiden fair and dapper,

He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,

Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk

In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,Walked beside the Skuntic waterGathering, in her apron wet,Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,

Walked beside the Skuntic water

Gathering, in her apron wet,

Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

"Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,When a lovyer bold and true,Only waits to gather you?"

"Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,

"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,

When a lovyer bold and true,

Only waits to gather you?"

"Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,I prefer a man more tasty;Leastways, one to please me wellShould not have a beasty smell."

"Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,

I prefer a man more tasty;

Leastways, one to please me well

Should not have a beasty smell."

"Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,"Mind and heart alike are cancered;Jest look here! these peltries giveCash, wherefrom a pair may live.

"Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,

"Mind and heart alike are cancered;

Jest look here! these peltries give

Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

"I, you think, am but a vagrant,Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank—I've a handsome sum in bank."

"I, you think, am but a vagrant,

Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;

Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank—

I've a handsome sum in bank."

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,And, before the year was over,Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,Bought a cape, against the cold.

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,

And, before the year was over,

Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,

Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was,Of a stylish cut the shape was;And the girls, in all the town,Envied Huldah up and down.

Black and thick the furry cape was,

Of a stylish cut the shape was;

And the girls, in all the town,

Envied Huldah up and down.

Then at last, one winter morning,Hiram came without a warning."Either," said he, "you are blind,Huldah, or you've changed your mind.

Then at last, one winter morning,

Hiram came without a warning.

"Either," said he, "you are blind,

Huldah, or you've changed your mind.

"Me you snub for trapping varmints,Yet you take the skins for garments;Since you wear the skunk and mink,There's no harm in me, I think."

"Me you snub for trapping varmints,

Yet you take the skins for garments;

Since you wear the skunk and mink,

There's no harm in me, I think."

"Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,Hiram; I accept the moral,Now the fashion's so I guessI can't hardly do no less."

"Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,

Hiram; I accept the moral,

Now the fashion's so I guess

I can't hardly do no less."

Thus the trouble all was overOf the love of Hiram Hover.Thus he made sweet Huldah HydeHuldah Hover as his bride.

Thus the trouble all was over

Of the love of Hiram Hover.

Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde

Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favor,Things of good and evil savor;That which first appeared to part,Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.

Love employs, with equal favor,

Things of good and evil savor;

That which first appeared to part,

Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.

Under one impartial banner,Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,Draw, from every beast they snare,Comfort for a wedded pair!Bayard Taylor.

Under one impartial banner,

Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,

Draw, from every beast they snare,

Comfort for a wedded pair!

Bayard Taylor.

(A panegyric)

My—anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd" by,"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;I dare not mount on thee ('twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;The stranger "had" thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I'm sold! I'm sold!To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,Here—what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!Who says that I'll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal'd.Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and mainThe asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.Philip F. Allen.

My—anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd" by,

"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.

Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;

I dare not mount on thee ('twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.

Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;

The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;

The stranger "had" thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;

I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I'm sold! I'm sold!

To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,Here—what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!

To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.

Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?

'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;

I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.

(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,

A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)

And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,

Here—what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!

Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!Who says that I'll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal'd.Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and mainThe asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.Philip F. Allen.

Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;

I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.

I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,

They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!

Who says that I'll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?

Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal'd.

Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main

The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.

Philip F. Allen.

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