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Next week 'twas the same, and the next, and the next-
He perspired like an ox, he was nervous and vex'd ;
Week passed after week, till by weekly succession
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him,
For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung about him ;
He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny,
“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there's a guinea."

The doctor look'd wise : “A slow fever,” he said ;
Prescribed sudorifics, and going to bed.
“Sudorifics in bed,” exclaimed Will, are humbugs,
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs.”

Will kick'd out the doctor, but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ;
So calling his host, he said, “Sir, do you know
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago ?”

"Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will, with a grin,
“ That with honest intentions you first took me in ;
But from the first night, and to say it I'm bold,
I've been so very hot that I'm sure I've caught cold.”

Quoth the landlord,“ Till now, I ne'er had a dispute,
I've let lodgings ten years—I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven,
And your bed is immediately over my oven !”

“The oven!” says Will : says the host,“ Why this passion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion ; Why so crusty, good sir?” Cried Will, in a taking, “Who would not be crusty with half-a-year's baking ?

Will paid for his rooms ; cried the host with a sneer,

Well, I see you've been going away half-a-year.” “Friend, we can't well agree, yet no quarrel,” Will said ; “ But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread.”





In the slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind !

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,

Of the pleasures that waited on life's merry morn, While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,

And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise ; Now far, far behind him, the green waters glide,

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes,

The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch,

And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear, And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear,

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest

"O God! thou hast blessed me, I ask for no more !” Ah! whence is that flame which now glares in his eye?

Ah! what is the sound which now bursts on his ears? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky !

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the spheres ! He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ;

Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck;

The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire !

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Like mountains, the billows tremendously swell ;

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave! Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight !

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ! Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright-

Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honey'd kiss ? Oh, sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay ;
Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main

Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem thy lost form from the merciless surge ; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! On a bed of sea-flowers thy pale limbs shall be laid,

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,

And each tribe of the deep haunt thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obeyOh! sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul !

W. Dimond.


My boat is on the shore,

And my barque is on the sea ;
Yet ere I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,

And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for





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Though the ocean roar around me,

It still shall bear me on ;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well,

As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink,
In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour
Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Lord Byron


SOME years ago, when civil faction,

Raged like a fury through the fields of Gaul, And children, in the general distraction,

Were taught to curse as soon as they could squali; When common sense in common folks was dead,

And murder showed a love of nationality,
And France, determined not to have a head,

Decapitated all the higher class
To put folks more on an equality;
When coronets were not worth half-a-crown,

And Liberty, in bonnet rouge, might pass
For Mother Redcap up at Camdentown;
Full many a Frenchman then took wing,

Bidding soup-maigre an abrupt farewell,

And hither came pell-mell,
Sans clothes, sans cash, and almost sans everything.
Two Messieurs who about this time came over

Half-starved, but toujours gai

(No weasels e'er were thinner),
Trudged up to town from Dover,

Their slender store exhausted on the way,
Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner.



From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve,

Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition : Great was their need, and sorely did they grievem

Stomach and pocket in the same condition ! At length, by mutual consent they parted, And different ways on the same errand started.

This happen'd on a day most dear

To epicures, when gen’ral use

Sanctions the roasting of the savoury goose ! Towards night, one Frenchman at a tavern near Stopp'd and beheld the glorious cheer; While greedily he snuffed the luscious gale in That from the kitchen windows was exhaling, He instant set to work bis busy brain, And snuff'd, and long'd, and long’d and snuff'd again.

Necessity's the mother of invention
(A proverb I've heard many mention);
So now one moment saw his plan completed,
And our sly Frenchman at a table seated.
The ready waiter at his elbow stands
“Sir, will you favour me with your commands ?
We've roast and boiled, sir-choose you those or these ?”
Sare, you are very good, sare ! Vat

you please !"
Quick at the word,
Upon the table smokes the wished-for bird !
No time in talking did he waste,

But pounced pell-mell upon it;
Drumstick and merrythought he pick'd in haste,

Exulting in the merry thought that won it.
Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese :

“Stilton or Cheshire, sir ?"_“Ah, vat you please !" And now our Frenchman having ta'en his fill, Prepares to go, when—“Sir, your little bill.” “Ah, vat you're Bill! vell, Mr. Bill, good day ! Bon jour, good Villiam.” ""No, sir, stay, My name is Tom, sir-you've this bill to pay.”

“Pay, pay, ma foi ! I call for nothing, sir, pardonnez moi!

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