But all of them are bad enough

To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,—
Some filthy creature begs
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little, lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread,

And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor "home, sweet home," should seem to be
A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance," all at once,
Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,

To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,

And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,-it is,—it is,-
A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw;

And pay the owner of the bear,

That stunned you with his paw,

And buy the lobster, that has had

Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown,

And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;

Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,

Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop

A button in the hat!

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

THOU happy, happy elf!

THOS. HOOD.

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-
(Good heavens!—the child is swallowing a pin !)
Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble !-that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-
(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life-

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star-
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

PROVINCIAL SPEECH.

O. W. HOLMES.

SOME words on LANGUAGE may be well applied,
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride;
Words lead to things; a scale is more precise,-
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice.
Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips

The native freedom of the Saxon lips;

See the brown peasant of the plastic South,
How all his passions play about his mouth!
With us, the feature that transmits the soul,
▲ frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole.
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk
Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk;
Not all the pumice of the polished town

Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down;
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race
By this one mark,—he's awkward in the face;—
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew
The sunny street that holds the sifted few.

It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young,
We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue;

But school and college often try in vain

To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain;
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true;—
No quondam rustic can enunciate view.

A few brief stanzas may be well employed
To speak of errors we can all avoid.

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope
The careless lips that speak of soap for sōap;
Her edict exiles from her fair abode

The clownish voice that utters road for road;
Less stern to him who calls his coat a coat,
And steers his boat, believing it a boat,
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast,
Who said at Cambridge, most instead of mōst,
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot
To hear a Teacher call a root a root.

Once more; speak clearly, if you speak at all;
Carve every word before you let it fall;

Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star,

Try over hard to roll the British R;

Do put your accents in the proper spot;

Don't, let me beg you,--don't say "How?" for "What?" And, when you stick on conversation's burs,

Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.

From "Urania.”

A RHYMED LESSON.

FROM little matters let us pass to less, And lightly touch the mysteries of dress; The outward forms the inner man reveal,We guess the pulp before we cut the peel.

O. W. HOLMES.

I leave the broadcloth,—coats and all the rest,—
The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest,"
The things named "pants" in certain documents,
A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents";
One single precept might the whole condense:
Be sure your tailor is man of sense;
But add a little care, a decent pride,

And always err upon the sober side.

Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light, And least of all the pair that once was white;