And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery; or else — he drinks!

Thompson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;

But then he said it — lying — in his bed,

At ten o'clock A. M.,

the very reason

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is
His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

-

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, —
Awake to duty, and awake to truth,
But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

'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!

John Godfrey Saxe

THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR

A Counsel in the Common Pleas,

Who was esteemed a mighty wit,
Upon the strength of a chance hit

Amid a thousand flippancies,
And his occasional bad jokes

In bullying, bantering, browbeating,
Ridiculing, and maltreating

Women, or other timid folks,

In a late cause resolved to hoax
A clownish Yorkshire farmer one
Who, by his uncouth look and gait,
Appeared expressly meant by Fate
For being quizzed and played upon:
So having tipped the wink to those
In the back rows,

Who kept the laughter bottled down,
Until our wag should draw the cork,

He smiled jocosely on the clown,

And went to work.

'Well, Farmer Numscull, how go calves at York?" "Why - not, sir, as they do wi' you,

But on four legs, instead of two."

"Officer!" cried the legal elf,

Piqued at the laugh against himself,

So pray keep silence down below there.

Now look at me, clown, and attend;

Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?"
66 Yees - very like I often go there."
"Our rustic's waggish quite laconic,"
The counsel cried, with grin sardonic;
I wish I'd known this prodigy,
This genius of the clods, when I
On circuit was at York residing.
Now, Farmer, do for once speak true
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you,
Who doubtless think yourself so clever,
Are there as many fools as ever

In the West Riding?"

"Why-no, sir, no; we've got our share,

But not so many as when you were there!”

Horace Smith

BALLAD

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he piped on the hilltop high,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?"

And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard

The connection of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her, away she skips
Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

PART II.

She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks
There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She gave up mending her father's breeks,
And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
Then she follow'd him o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And this song is consider'd a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
Charles Stuart Calverley

THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER

In Broad Street Buildings on a winter night,
Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight
Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing
His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose:
While t'other held beneath his nose

The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops, and slops;

Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin,

Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin;

When lo! a decent personage in black

Entered and most politely said:

Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track
To the King's Head,

And left your door ajar; which I

Observed in passing by,

And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get,

In time of danger,

Such kind attentions from a stranger!

Assuredly, that fellow's throat is

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate:

He knows, too (the unconscionable elf!),

That there's no soul at home except myself."

Indeed,” replied the stranger (looking grave),

66 Then he's a double knave;

He knows that rogues and thieves by scores
Nightly beset unguarded doors:

And see, how easily might one

Of these domestic foes,

Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks;

Enter your room, as I have done,

Blow out your candles - thus - and thus

So said, so done; he made no more remark
Nor waited for replies,

But marched off with his prize,

Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.

Horace Smith

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE1

It is very aggravating

To hear the solemn prating

Of the fossils who are stating
That old Horace was a prude;
When we know that with the ladies
He was always raising Hades,
And with many an escapade his
Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a
Large number of his carmina,
But these people find alarm in a
Few records of his acts;

So they'd squelch the muse caloric,
And to students sophomoric
They'd present as metaphoric

What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy;
Now we adjudge 'em crazy!
Why, Horace was a daisy

That was very much alive!
And the wisest of us know him
As his Lydia verses show him, -
Go, read that virile poem,

It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir,

And starting out to prowl, sir,

1 From "A Little Book of Western Verse." Copyright, 1889, by Eugene

Field, and published by Charles Scribner's Sons.