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O then come, rich and poor, young and old.
For of course it's a very fine thing,
Spite of Misery, Hunger, and cold,
That we all are so able to sing,

Hullahbaloo !

There are Demons to worry the rich,
There are monsters to torture the poor,
There's the Worm that will gnaw at the heart,
There's the Wolf that will come to the door!
We may even be short of the cash
For the tax to a queen or a king,
And the broker may sell off our beds,
But we still shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

There's Consumption to wither the weak,
There are fevers that humble the stout-
A disease may be rife with the young,
Or a pestilence walking about-
Desolation may visit our hives,
And old death's metaphorical sting
May dispose of the dearest of wives,
But we all shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

We may farm at a very high rent,
And with guano manure an inch deep,
We may sow, whether broadcast or drill,
And have only the whirlwind to reap;
All our corn may be spoil'd in the ear,
And our barns be ignited by Swing,
And our sheep may die off with the rot,
But we all shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

Our acquaintance may cut us direct,
Even Love may become rather cold,
And a Friend of our earlier years
May look shy at the coat that is old :
We may not have a twig or a straw,
Not a reed where affection may cling,
Not a dog for our love, or a cat,
But we still shall be able to sing
Hullabaloo !

Some are pallid with watching and want,
Some are burning with blushes of shame;
Some have lost all they had in the world,
And are bankrupts in honor and name.
Some have wasted a fortune in trade-
And by going at all in the ring,

Some have lost c'en a voice in the House;

But they all will be able to sing

Hullabaloo !

Some are deep in the Slough of Despond,
And so sick of the burden of life,
That they dream of leaps over a bridge
Of the pistol, rope, poison and knife;
To the Temples of Riches and Fame
We are not going up in a string;
And to some even heaven seems black,
But we all shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo!

We may give up the struggle with Care, And the last little hope that would stop, We may strive with a Giant DespairFrom the very blue sky we may drop,

By some sudden bewildering blow
Stricken down like a bird on the wing-
Or with hearts breaking surely and slow-
But we all shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

Oh! no matter how wretched we be,
How ill-lodged, or ill-clad, or ill-fed,
And with only one tile for a roof,
That we carry about on the head:
We may croak with a very bad cold,
Or a throat that 's as dry as a ling,-
There's the Street or the Stage for us all,
For we all shall be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

There's a music aloft in the air,
As if Cherubs were humming a song,

Now it's high, now it's low, here and there,
There's a harmony floating along!

While the steeples are loud in their joy,
To the tune of the bells' ring-a-ding,
Let us chime in a peal, one and all,
For we all should be able to sing

Hullahbaloo !

EPIGRAM.

WHEN would be Suicides in purpose fail

Who could not find a morsel though they needed—

If Peter sends them for attempts to jail,

What would he do to them if they succeeded?

MAGNETIC MUSINGS.

SCEPTICAL, as we have always been, as to the imputed miracles of Phreno-Magnetism, the interests of science and truth demand the insertion of the following case, vouched for, as it is, by a medical gentleman, prepared to be answerable for unquestionable facts.

It is proper to recal before-hand, that Coleridge published a Poetical Fragment, called Kubla Kahn, which he dreamt during a sleep obviously magnetic. The poet, indeed, implies as much, by calling the piece a Psychological Curiosity; which he would scarcely have done, if his verses had been merely composed, like a majority of modern poems, during a common doze. But whoever reads that splendid fragment, will recognize from its tone, that it was inspired, in a fit of somnambulism, under the influence of which he ascended to the top of Parnassus, as some persons, in the same state, have climbed to the roof of the house.

In the present instance, the improvisatrice is a Mrs. Z—, a woman, in her ordinary or waking state, of rather a prosaic turn than otherwise; so much so, that it can not be traced that she ever attempted, even in a valentine, to throw her sentiments into rhyme. Certain phrenological developments, however, suggested to the family physician that the poetical faculty had a local habitation in her cerebrum, and only awaited the touch of the magician to awaken its tones. Accordingly, having thrown her, by the usual passes, into a mesmeric state, he placed his forefinger on the organ of Extempore Composition, whereupon she immediately improvised the following verses :—

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PASSING my brow, and passing my eyes,
And passing lower, with devious range,
Passing my chest,

And passing the rest,

I feel a something passing strange!

Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath!
And, methinks I hear the passing-bell;
But, Mr. Passmore, that reverend elf,
Gives me a pass that I know well,
A sort of passport to Heaven itself!

Passing my brow, and passing my eye,
And passing lower, with devious range,
Passing my chest,

And passing the rest,

feel a something passing strange !

Oh, Mr. Eyre, Lieutenant dear!
Oh! Lady Sale, thou gallant lass!
I know for certain that ye are near,
For I feel, I feel, the Khyber Pass!
But no 'tis Brockedon passes my brow,
And I'm in the Alpine Passes now,
With icy valleys, and snowy crests,
Whereon the passing vapor rests;
And guide and English traveler pass,
Each on a very passable ass!

Passing my ear, and passing my eye!
O joy! what pastoral meads I spy,

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