By the side of yon river he weeps and he slumps,
The boots fill with water, as if they were pumps,
Till, sated with rapture, he steals to his bed,
With a glow in his heart, and a cold in his head.

'T is past, he is dreaming,—I see him again;
The ledger returns as by legerdemain;
His mustache is damp with an easterly flaw,
And he holds in his fingers an omnibus straw.

He dreams the chill gust is a blossoming gale,
That the straw is a rose from his dear native vale;

And murmurs, unconscious of space and of time, "A 1.-Extra super.-Ah! isn't it prime !"

O, what are the prizes we perish to win,
To the first little "shiner" we caught with a pin ?
No soil upon earth is so dear to our eyes

As the soil we first stirred in terrestrial pies!

Then come from all parties and parts to our feast;
Though not at the "Astor," we'll give you at least
A bite at an apple, a seat on the grass,
And the best of old-water-at nothing a glass.
-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Ancient maiden lady

Anxiously remarks,

That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion

She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-a-vis,
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,

Says it's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market woman, careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,

Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash,

If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot

Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,

Rattling over ridges;

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the valeBless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!

-John Godfrey Saxe.

A

H! poor intoxicated little knave,

Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay`st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy, sweet-lipped soul-
Thus death, as well as pleasure, dwells with punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
Forever hankering after pleasure's cup,
Though fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose-they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!

When prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,

They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild,

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread;
By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose,
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,

And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands,
Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again."

And well mayst thou rejoice-'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to death's unsocial lands.
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt;

Now turnest-on the table making rings;
Now crawling, forming a wet track;
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy pack;
Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings;
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind;
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me-farewell, fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford-

There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee, drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight and feed and work no harm-
While punch, the grinning merry imp of sin,
Invites the wary wanderer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face as though he meant him bliss,
Then like an alligator, drags him in.

-John Wolcott (Peter Pindar).

Μ'

R. ORATOR PUFF had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. O! O! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, [pray?" "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

Reeling homeward one evening, top heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the

crown,

He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking fund" the last words as his noddle came down.

O! O! Orator Puff, etc.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, "Help me out! Help me out! I have broken my bones!"

"Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!

Why, there's two of you there--can't you help one another?"

O! O! Orator Puff,

One voice for a orator's surely enough.

Thomas Moore.