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Lastly, dor.'t Farley, a bewildered elf,
A frightful mug of human delf?
· A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?
To clench the fact,
Committed at the Surrey,
Quite in a hurry,
All going well,
There's no denying
Thy pens so innocent of goose !
Discarding port and sherry,
Drink — “Perry!”
To distant lands,
Text, running, German, Roman,
And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!
On due pentagonal base
VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY. (t's very hard ! — and so it is, to live in such a row,And witness this that every miss but me has got a beau.For Love goes calling up and down, but here he seems to
shun; I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number One! I'm sick of all the double knocks that come to Number
Four !At Number Three, I often see a lover at the door ; — And one in blue, at Number Two, calls daily like a dun,It's very hard they come so near, and not to Number One! Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window-pane without a bit of blind; — But I go in the balcony, which she has never done, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five don't take at Number
One ! 'T is hard, with plenty in the street, and plenty passing by,– There's nice young men at Number Ten, but only rather
And Mrs. Smith across the way has got a grown-up son, But, la ! he hardly seems to know there is a Number One! There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, but he's intent on pelf, And though he's pious will not love his neighbor as him
self. At Number Seven there was a sale — the goods had quite
a run ! And here I've got my single lot on hand at Number One! My mother often sits at work and talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be in her declining days : The very maids about the house have set me down a nun, The sweethearts all belong to them that call at Number One! Once only, when the flue took fire, one Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in and told me not to swoon : Why can't he come again without the Phænix and the Sun ? We cannot always have a flue on fire at Number One! I am not old, I am not plain, nor awkward in my gait — I am not crooked, like the bride that went from Number
Eight :I'm sure white satin made her look as brown as any bun — But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One ! At Number Six they say Miss Rose has slain a score of
hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been quite prodigal of darts. The imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun! But if he had, he'd never deign to shoot with Number One.
It's very hard, and so it is, to live in such a row !
LINES ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE.
BY DORCAS DOVE. And is it thus ye welcome Peace,
From mouths of forty-pounding Bores ? O, cease, exploding Cannons, cease !
Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores ! Not so the quiet Queen should come ;
But like a Nurse to still our Fears, With shoes of List, demurely dumb,
And Wool or Cotton in her Ears ! She asks for no triumphal Arch;
No Steeples for their ropy Tongues ; Down, Drumsticks, down! She needs no March,
Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats
To tell that She is drawing nigh: Why this Parade of scarlet Coats,
When War has closed his bloodshot Eye? Returning to Domestic Loves,
When War has ceased with all its Ills, Captains should come like sucking Doves,
With Olive Branches in their Bills. No need there is of vulgar Shout,
Bells, Cannons, Trumpets, Fife and Drum,
To let Us know that Peace is come.
Sweet Peace's Advent to proclaim !
And Echo should repeat the same.
Lo! where the Soldier walks, alas!
With Scars received on foreign Grounds ;
The Oil that should be poured in Wounds ?
Will whizzing Rocket-Flight avail ?
Or Crackers cheer the Widow's Tale ?
THE DEMON-SHIP. 'Twas off the Wash — the sun went down — the sea looked
black and grim, For stormy clouds with murky fleece were mustering at the
brim; Titanic shades ! enormous gloom! — as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! Down went my helm — close reefed -— the tack held freely
in my hand — With ballast snug — I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee; my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of
hail! What darksome caverns yawned before ! what jagged steeps
behind ! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the
wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place :