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But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology ? Is Brahma's Bull — a Hindoo god at home —

A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday — Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

That there is such a dread of them on Sunday —

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,

As vessels cant their ballast — rattling rubbish ! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,

Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next

To see the Dandelions on a Sunday —
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

MORNING MEDITATIONS.
LET Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying -
For my part, getting up seems not so easy

By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out —
WŁerefore am I to rise at such a ily?

I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime -
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,-
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn-out !
Right beautiful the dewy maids appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ;
What then,- if I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl ?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
Wherefore should master rise before the hens

Have laid their eggs?
Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken ?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
" To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,” —

Well — he died young.
With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup,
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be

All up — all up! So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon ; — A man that's fond precociously of stirring,

Must be a spoon.

• A BLACK JOB.
« No doubt the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated as to cheat.” — HUDIBRAS.
The history of human-kind to trace

Since Eve — the first of dupes — our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race

Has certainly a taste for being diddled.
Witness the famous Mississippi dreams !

A rage that time seems only to redouble —
The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes.

For rolling in Pactolian streams,
That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.
No matter what,— to pasture cows on stubble,

To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,
To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,
Or light with gas the whole celestial cope —

Only propose to blow a bubble,
And, Lord ! what hundreds will subscribe for soap !
Soap! it reminds me of a little tale,

Though not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,
When rustic games and merriment prevail —

But here's my story:
Once on a time — no matter when —
A knot of very charitable men
Set up a Philanthropical Society,

Professing on a certain plan

To benefit the race of man,
And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior — as in vermin,

The sable is to ermine,
As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow,

As blacking, or as ink to “milk below"

Or yet, a better simile to show,
As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!
However, as is usual in our city,
They had a sort of managing Committee,

A board of grave, responsible Directors —
A Secretary, good at pen and ink —
A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink,

And quite an army of Collectors !
Not merely male, but female duns,

Young, old, and middle-aged — of all degrees — With many of those persevering ones,

Who mite by mite would beg a cheese! And what might be their aim ?

To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters — To save their bodies from the burning shame

Of branding with hot letters — Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes,

Their necks from iron yokes ?
To end or mitigate the ills of slavery,
The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery ?
To school the heathen negroes and enlighten 'em

To polish up and brighten 'em,
And make them worthy of eternal bliss ?
Why, no — the simple end and aim was this —
Reading a well-known proverb much amiss —

To wash and whiten 'em !
They looked so ugly in their sable hides ;

So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot
Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides,

However the poor elves
Might wash themselves,

Nobody knew if they were clean or not -

On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot !
Not to forget more serious complaints
That even while they joined in pious hymn,

So black they were and grim,

In face and limb,
They looked like Devils, though they sang like Saints !

The thing was undeniable !
They wanted washing ! not that slight ablution
To which the skin of the white man is liable,
Merely removing transient pollution —
But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing

And scrubbing,
Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head

With stiff, strong saponaceous lather,

And pails of water -- hottish rather,
But not so boiling as to turn 'em red !
So spoke the philanthropic man
Who laid, and hatched, and nursed the plan —
And, O! to view its glorious consummation !

The brooms and mops,

The tubs and slops,
The baths and brushes in full operation !
To see each Crow, or Jim, or John,
Go in a raven and come out a swan !

While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels,
Black Venus rises from the soapy surge,
And all the little Niggerlings emerge

As lily-white as mussels.
Sweet was the vision — but, alas!

However in prospectus bright and sunny.
To bring such visionary scenes to pass

One thing was requisite, and that was — money!

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