They 've built us up a noble wall, So faster, now, you middle men, Here, tread upon the long man's toes, And punch the little fellow's ribs, And tweak that lubber's ear, He's lost them both, - don't pull his hair, Because he wears a scratch, But poke him in the further eye, Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, It's pretty sport, suppose we take A round or two for fun! If ever they should turn me out, When I have better grown, Now hang me, but I mean to have A treadmill of my own! THE SEPTEMBER GALE. I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, The day before, my kite-string snapped, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; For me two storms were brewing! It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing, A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder,— A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder. Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter, The earth was like a frying-pan, It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying: I saw the shirts and petticoats I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, I lost my Sunday breeches! I saw them straddling through the air, I saw them chase the clouds as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, "My breeches! O my breeches! That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them. I have had many happy years, But those young pantaloons have gone And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. I wrote some lines once on a time And thought, as usual, men would say They were so queer, so very queer, Albeit, in the general way, I called my servant, and he came ; To mind a slender man like me, "These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added, (as a trifling jest,) "There 'll be the devil to pay." |