Oh, 'twas very sad and lonely When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I've made a little tavern

In a rocky little cavern,

And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking

For a girl to do my cooking,

As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews ;
But I had that fellow Friday

Just to keep the tavern tidy,

And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden

That I'm cultivating lard in,

As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,

And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry,

And it made me fret and worry

When I found the moths were eating off the hair;

And I had to scrape and sand 'em,

And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion

In a family excursion

With the few domestic animals you see;

And we take along a carrot

As refreshments for the parrot, And a little cup of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel

Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of stone,
And we carry home as prizes
Funny bugs of handy sizes,

Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy, We remain at home and study, For the Goat is very clever at a sum― And the Dog instead of fighting, Studies ornamental writing,

While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven;

And I wish to call attention, as I close,

To the fact that all the scholars

Are correct about their collars,

And particular in turning out their toes.

CHAS. EDWARD CARRYL.

LOVE UNDER THE LEDGER.

LOVE knock'd one night, at a Gentleman's heart, When his passions were snug asleep;

But they all jumped up, with a terrible start,

All heels over head, in a heap.

All heels over head, in a heap.

Says the gentleman—this will never do,
You'll ruin me, Love, you will,
My Creditors now, look Devilish blue,

And as sharp as the end of my quill,

And my heart is so full of the girls you've brought, I can't 'tend to business at all, as I ought.

When I go to enter a price in my book,
Some pretty girl enters my head,
And gives me such a bewildering look,

I write down her name, in its stead.
My ledger is marked with Miss P. and Miss C.,
O Love, you're playing the Devil with me.

Says Love, with a giggle, come, dear sir,

Let me chuck but the image of this girl in,
There's room in your heart, I know, for her,

See the poor thing, how pale and thin—
And Sympathy took at the lady a peep,
And tumbled the others, all out in a heap,
All heels over head, in a heap.

M'DONALD CLARKE.

OLD GRIMES.

OLD Grimes is dead; that good old man

We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray-
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes

He pass'd securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:

He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,

No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse-
Was sociable and gay :

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,

Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

THE LAST LEAF.

I SAW him once before,
And he passed by the door,
And again

The pavement stones resound,

As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
'Ere the pruning knife of Time
Cut him down,