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The hours that leave the slightest

cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or


'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night;

And free, at last, from mortal care or guile.

To live as only in the angels' sight. In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,

Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad, who, when his father thought

To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught.

Cried, "Served him right! — it's not

at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for

early rising!"


"A man is. in general, better pleased when he has a good dinner u|x>n his table, than when his wife speaks Greek."— Sam Johnson.

Johnson was right. I don't agree to all

The solemn dogmas of the rough old stager; But very much approve what one may call

The minor morals of the "Ursa Major."

Johnson was right. Although some men adore Wisdom in woman, and with learning cram her.

There isn't one in ten but thinks far more

Of his own grub than of his spouse's grammar.

I know it is the greatest shame in life; But who among them (save, perhaps, myself)

Returning hungry home, but asks his wife

What beef — not books — she has upon the shelf?

Though Greek and Latin be the lady's boast,

They're little valued by her loving 'mate;

The kind of tongue that husbands relish most Is modern, boiled, and served upon a plate.

Or if, as fond ambition may command.

Some home-made verse the happy

matron show him, What mortal spouse but from her

dainty hand Would sooner see a pudding than a


Young lady,—deep in love with Tom or Harry,— 'Tis sad to tell you such a tale as this;

But here's the moral of it: Do not marry;

Or, marrying, take your lover as he is, —

A very man, — with something of the brute

(Unless he prove a sentimental noddy).

With passions strong and appetite to boot,

A thirsty soul within a hungry body.

A very man, — not one of nature's clods,—

With human failings, whether saint

or sinner; Endowed, perhaps, with genius from

the gods, But apt to take his temper from his



Singing through the forests,

Battling over ridges; Shooting under arches.

Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale,— Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!

Men of different "stations"

In the eye of fame, Here are very quickly

Coming to the same; High and lowly people,

Birds of every feather, On a common level,

Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts,

Looming very tall; Gentleman at large

Talking very small; Gentleman in tights.

With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in gray.

Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old,

Asking for the news; Gentleman in black,

In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret,

Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed,

Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right

Looking very sunny, Obviously reading

something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, —

Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the Knicker

Bocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left

Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain.

Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume

Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid

From " Association."

Ancient maiden lady

Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril

'Along 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 terrorist 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 vale. — Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!


I Once was a jolly young beau.

And knew how to pick up a fan, But I've done with all that, you must know.

For now I'm a family man!

When a partner I ventured to take, The ladies all favored the plan;

They owned I was certain to make
"Such an excellent family man!"

If I travel by land or by water,
I have charge of some Susan or

Mrs. Brown is so sure that her daughter

Is safe with a family man!

The trunks and the bandboxes round 'em

With something like horror I scan, But though I may mutter "Confound


I smile — like a family man!

I once was as gay as a templar,
But levity's now under ban;

Young people must have an exemplar.

And I am a family man!

The club-men I meet in the city
All treat me as well as they can,

And only exclaim, " What a pity
Poor Tom is a family man!"

I own I am getting quite pensive;

Ten children, from David to Dan, Is a family rather extensive;

But then — I'm a gentle man!

Richard Henry Stoddard.


He saw in sight of his house,

At dusk, as stories tell,
A woman picking mulberries,

And he liked her looks right well.

He struggled out of his chair,
And began to beckon and call;

But she went on picking mulberries,
Nor looked at him at all.

"If Famine should follow you. He would find the harvest in; You think yourself and your mulberries

Too good for a mandarin.

I have yellow gold in my sleeve."

But she answered, sharp and bold, "Be off! Let me pick my mulberries,

I am bought with no man's gold."

She scratched his face with her nails,
Till he turned and fled for life,

For the lady picking mulberries
Was his true and virtuous wife!


My uncle Philip, hale old man,

Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate and Ann —

How many call me "Cousin?"

Good boys and girls, the best was Bess,

I bore her on my shoulder; A little bud of loveliness

That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way,

They seemed to say, "Don't strike me."

Then, growing bold another day,
"I mean to make you like me."

I liked my cousin, early, late,
Who liked not little misses:

She used to meet me at the gate,
Just old enough for kisses!

This was, I think, three years ago,

Before I went to college: I learned but one thing — how to row,

A healthy sort of knowledge. When I was plucked, (we won the race.)

And all was at an end there,
I thought of Uncle Philip's place.

And every country friend there.
My cousin met me at the gate.

She looked five, ten years older, A tall young woman, still, sedate,

With manners coyer, colder. She gave her hand with stately pride.

"Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me." She replied, "I am too old for kisses."

I loved — I loved my Cousin Bess,
She's always in my mind now;

A full-blown bud of loveliness,
The rose of womankind now!

She must have suitors; old and young
Must bow their heads before her;

Vows must be made, and songs be sung

By many a mad adorer. But I must win her: she must give

To me her youth and beauty;
And I —to love her while I live

Will be my happy duty.
For she will love me soon or late,

And be my bliss of blisses,
Will come to meet me at the gate,

Nor be too old for kisses!


I Know a bright and beauteous May,

Who knows I love her well;
But if she loves, or will some day,

I cannot make her tell.
She sings the songs I write for her,

Of tender hearts betrayed;
But not the one that I prefer,

About a country maid.
The hour when I its burden hear

Will never be forgot: "O stay not long, but come, my dear,

And knit our marriage knot!"

It is about a country maid —

I see her in my mind;
She is not of her love afraid,

And cannot be unkind.

She knits, and sings with many a sigh.

And, as her needles glide,
She wishes, and she wonders why

He is not at her side. "He promised he would meet me here.

Upon this very spot:

0 stay not long, but come, my dear, And knit our marriage knot!"

My lady will not sing the song;
"Why not?" I say. And she,

Tossing her head, "It is too long."
And I. "Too short, may be."

She has her little wilful ways,
But I persist, and then,
It is not maidenly," she says,
"For maids to sigh for men."

•' But men must sigh for maids, I fear,

I know it is my lot,
Until you whisper, 'Come, my dear,
And knit our marriage knot!'"

Why is my little one so coy?
Why does she use me so?

I am no fond and foolish boy
To lightly come and go.

A man who loves, I know my heart,
And will know hers ere long,

For, certes I will not depart
Until she sings my song.

She learned it all, as you shall hear,
No word has she forgot.

"Begin, my dearest." "Come, my dear,

And knit our marriage knot!"

Jonathan Swift.


Some great misfortune to portend
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess —
When daily how-d'ye's come of

And servants answer: "Worse and worse!" —

Would please them better than to tell,
That, God be praised! thedean is well.
Then he, who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest:
'' You know I always feared the worst,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover,
But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbor feel a pain

Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should

Inquire what regimen I kept?
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast. They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrived! How is the dean? he's just alive. Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes. The dean is dead.

Before the passing-bell begun. The news through half the town has run;

"Oh! may we all for death prepare!

What has he left 1 and who's the heir?"

I know no more than what the news is;

'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.
"To public uses! there's a whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
He gave it all — but first he died.
And had the dean in all the nation
No worthy friend, no poor rela-

So ready to do strangers good.
Forgetting his own flesh and blood!"

William Makepeace Thackeray.


A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields,

Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its
name is —
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and
but still in comfortable case —
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bow l of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is —
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. That Greenwich never could outdo;

Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern.

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:

All these you eat at Terra's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew't is;

And true philosophers, methinks. Who love all sorts of natural beauties.

Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is as before; The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is

Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table,

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre", waiter, pray?"

The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder; — "Monsieur is dead this many a day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner.

So honest Terre" s run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?"

"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

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