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Still here she goes-and there she goes,'—
He lost the bet in half a minute."

"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!"
Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet,
And fifty dollars be the bet."
"Agreed, but we will play some trick
To make you of the bargain sick!"
"I'm up to that!"

"Don't make us wait;
Begin, the clock is striking eight."
He seats himself, and left and right,
His finger wags with all his might,
And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows,
With "here she goes-and there she goes!"

"Hold!" said the Yankee,

ready!"

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His wife surveyed him with alarm,
And rushed to him and seized his arm;
He shook her off, and to and fro
His fingers persevered to go.
While curled his very nose with ire,
That she against him should conspire,
And with more furious tone arose

The "Here she goes-and there she goes!"

"Lawks!" screamed the wife," I'm in a
whirl!

Run down and bring the little girl;
She is his darling, and who knows
But "-

“Here she goes—and there she goes!”

"Lawks! he is mad! what made him thus?
Good Lord! what will become of us!
Run for a doctor-run-run-run
For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun,
And Doctor Black, and Doctor White,
And Doctor Grey, with all your might."

The doctors came, and looked and wondered,
And shook their heads, and paused and pon-
dered.
plank the Till one proposed he should be bled,
"No-leeched you mean "-the other said.
"Clap on a blister" roared another,
No-cup him "-" No, trepan him, brother!"
A sixth would recommend a purge,

The landlord wagged his finger steady,
While his left hand, as well as able,
Conveyed a purse upon the table.
"Tom, with the money let's be off!"
This made the landlord only scoff;

• He heard them running down the stair,
But was not tempted from his chair;
Thought he, "the fools! I'll bite them yet!
So poor a trick shan't win the bet."
And loud and loud the chorus rose
Of "here she goes-and there she goes!"
While right and left his finger swung,
In keeping to his clock and tongue.

His mother happened in to see
Her daughter; "Where is Mrs. B-?
When will she come, as you suppose?
Son!"

"Here she goes-and there she goes!"
"Here!-where?"-the lady in surprise
His fingers followed with her eyes;
"Son, why that steady gaze and sad?
Those words-that motion-are you mad?
But here's your wife-perhaps she knows
And"-

Here she goes-and there she goes!"

The next would an emetic urge,

The eighth, just come from a dissection,

His verdict gave for an injection;
The last produced a box of pills,

A certain cure for earthly ills;

"I had a patient yesternight,"

Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight,"
And as the only means to save her,
Three dozen patent pills I gave her,
And by to-morrow, I suppose
That"

"Here she goes—and there she goes!"

"You are all fools," the lady said,
"The way is, just to shave his head,
Run, bid the barber come anon "—
"Thanks, mother," thought her clever son,
"You help the knaves that would have bit

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I saw the servant take 'em off,
With those of other brutes:

What means that smile? what means that His soul was all in sixpences,

shiver?

The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver,

And triumph brightens up his face

His finger yet shall win the race!

The clock is on the stroke of nine

And up he starts-""Tis mine! 'Tis mine!" "What do you mean?"

"I mean the fifty!

I never spent an hour so thrifty;
But you who tried to make me lose,
Go, burst with envy, if you choose!
But how is this! where are they?"

"Who?"

"The gentlemen-I mean the two
Came yesterday-are they below?"
"They galloped off an hour ago."
"Oh, purge me! blister! shave and bleed!
For, hang the knaves, I'm mad, indeed!"
BY JAMES NACK. 1826.

But mine was in the boots.

And often in my nightly dreams
They swept before my face,
A lady growing out of them,
As flowers from a vase.

But ah! one morn I saw a sight

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Which struck me like a stone;
Some other name was on the book:
Those boots were not alone!

A great tall pair of other boots
Were standing by their side,
And off they walked that afternoon,
And with them walked-a bride!

Enough, enough--my song is sung,
Love's tree bears bitter fruits;
Beware of beauty, reader mine!
But oh! beware of boots!

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

LADIES' BOOTS.

THE TALL GENTLEMAN TO HIS
LADY LOVE.

Eternal love to thee;

A little glove stirs up my heart, as tides stir Upbraid me not! I never swore
up the ocean,
And snow-white muslin when it fits wakes For thou art only four feet high,
many a curious notion;
And I am six feet three:

All sorts of lady-fixins thrill my feelings, as I wonder, dear, how you supposed
That I could look so low;

they'd orter,
But little female gaiter-boots are death, and There's many a one can tie a knot,
Who cannot tie a beau!

nothin' shorter!

Besides, you must confess, my love,

The bargain's scarcely fair: For never could we make a match,

Although we made a pair; Marriage, I know, makes one of two, But there's the horrid bore, My friends declare if you are one, That I at least am four!

"T is true, the moralists have said,

That Love has got no eyes;

But why should all my sighs be heaved
For one who has no size?
And on our wedding-day, I'm sure
I'd leave you in the lurch,
For you never saw a steeple, dear,
In the inside of a church!

'Tis usual for a wife to take

Her husband by the arm-But pray excuse me, if I bint

A sort of fond alarm,

That when I offered you my arm,
That happiness to beg,

Your highest efforts, dear, would be,
To take me by the leg!

I do admit I wear a glass,
Because my sight's not good,
But were I always quizzing you,
It might be counted rude.
And though I use a convex lens,
I still cannot but hope

My wife will e'er "look up to me"

Through Herschel's telescope!

Then fare thee well, my gentle one,
I ask no parting kiss;

I must not break my back, to gain
So exquisite a bliss:

Nor will I weep, lest I should hurt
So delicate a flower:

The tears that fall from such a height
Would be a thunder shower!

Farewell! and pray don't throw yourself In a basin or a tub;

For that would be a sore disgrace

To all the Six-Feet Club!

But if you ever love again,

Love on a smaller plan,

For why extend to six feet three

The life that's but a span?

ANONYMOUS.

THE IRISHMAN.

There was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man-
And yet in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman-
A nasty, ugly Irishman-
A wild, tremendous Irishman—
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, rant-
ing, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
O, the lump of an Irishman-
The whiskey devouring Irishman-
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue
--the fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle green,
And the other eye was out, my dear:
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear!
O, the great big Irishman-

The rattling, battling IrishmanThe stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.

He took so much of Lundy-foot

That he used to snort and snuffle-0; And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. O, the horrible Irishman

The thundering, blundering IrishmanThe slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of
punch,

He'd not rest till he filled it full again;
The boozing, bruising Irishman-

The 'toxicated Irishman

The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality,

And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity;

O, the leathering Irishman

The barbarous, savage Irishman-
The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's
heads were bother'd, I'm sure, by this
Irishman.

WILLIAM MAGINN.

His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It's no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true.
And his heart was true to Poll.
F. C. BURNAND.

TRUE TO POLL.

I'll sing you a song, not very long,

But the story somewhat new,

Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did,

To his Poll was always true.
He sailed away in a gallant ship
From the port of old Bristol,

And the last words he uttered,
As his hankercher he fluttered,
Were, "My heart is true to Poll."

His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It's no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true;
And his heart was true to Poll.

'Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,
And looked aboût for an inn,

When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,

Came up with a kind of grin :"Oh, marry me, and a king you'll be,

And in a palace loll;

Or we'll eat you, willy-nilly."
So he gave his hand, did Billy,
But his heart was true to Poll.

His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll,
It's no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true;
And his heart was true to Poll.

THE NEW GENESIS.

August, year unknown; time, Six o'clock in the morning;

Sate in a tree an Ape; irrational; eating an

apple,

Raw; no cook as yet, no house, no shred of a garment;

Soul, a blank; taste, nil; a thumb but slowly beginning;

Warranted wholly an Ape, a great Jack-ape o' the forest,

Jabbering, hairy, grim, arboreal wholly in habits.

So he sate on till Noon, when, hushed in slumber around him,

Everything lay dead; all save the murmuring insect,

Whose small voice still spake, proclaiming silence. Awaking

Suddenly then he rose, and thinking scorn of his fellows

Longed to be quit of them all, his Apess specially. She, dear,

Knew no dream, no vision; her apelet playing about her

All her thought, her care! At Four, he finally left her,

Went to live by himself, but felt a pang-'twas a conscience

Budding, in germ! yet went; then stopped to bathe in a fountain;

Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life Wow! What an ugly phiz! He saw and

he led

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And he wore a pair of overshoes;

shuddered; a Ruskin

Stirred in his breast. Taste born! - the seed of a mighty Ideal,

Rafaelesque, Titanic! Erect he strode through the jungle,

Ile'd corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Cleaving his way with a stick ;—Art's rise!

Whose beauties I cannot here extol:

One day they all revolted,

So he back to Bristol bolted,

For his heart was true to Poll.

An implement-maker,

Parent of Armstrong guns, steam-rams, et

cætera !

The Spectator.

A MIXED DECISION.

At some of the bush races in Northern Queensland, a capital fellow was, by common consent, appointed to the responsible position of judge. He mixed his liquors pretty freely, and towards afternoon he was the enemy of no man. The last race of the day was a match between a black horse and a gray. They changed positions several times in the run in, and the finish looked like a "dead heat." There was a general rush to hear the decision of the judge, who stood calmly steadying himself by a friendly post.

"Well," cried the excited crowd, "which was it? Was it the black? Was it the gray?"

"You're all wrong!" said the judge, in his most judicial manner. ""Twas neither one nor t'other; the winner was a blessed smart piebald."

ious services, asking the clergymen to decide among themselves which one would preach. Mr. Herford at once excused himself on the ground that he had been preaching steadily through his vacation and wanted rest. Dr. Brooks thereupon suggested that, as Dr. Ellis was the oldest, he ought to speak. "Oh, no," Dr. Ellis responded, "it would be nonsense for me to preach when everybody wants to hear you." And so with disclaimers and compliments the matter was turned over and discussed until it ended in there being no service whatever.

"Well," sighed the captain to a sympathetic passenger, "I did what I could. But isn't it confoundedly singular," he continued confidentially, "three fire-escapes on board and nobody saved from the burning."

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DISTINCTION BETWEEN THE FORM OF PRAYERS.

An old darkey who was asked if, in his experience, prayer was ever answered, replied: "Well, sah! some pra'rs is ansud, an' some isn't-'pends on w'at you axes fo'. Jest arter de wah, w'en it was mighty hard scratchin' fo' de cullud breddern, I 'bsarved dat w'eneber I pway de Lord to sen' one o' Marse Peyton's fat turkeys fo' de old man, dere was no notis took ob de partition; but w'en I pway dat He would sen' de ole man fo' de turkey, de matter was 'tended to befo' sun-up nex' mornin', dead sartin."

SUSPECTED HER HUSBAND.

An Irish woman applied to a lawyer to procure a divorce for her.

'Well," said the lawyer, "and on what ground do you claim a divorce? Has your husband ever beaten you?"

"Divil a bit, sor; it's not the loikes of him that can bate me."

"Or has he deserted and failed to support you?"

'Indade, sor, I only wisht he wad desert me. Shure, sor, I've supported him ever since we came to Ameriky."

"Then have you any reason to believe that he has been guilty of infidelity ?" "An' phwat's that, yer honer?""

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