THE

HUMOROUS SPEAKER.

THE MOSQUITO'S SONG-A SOLILOQUY.-ANON.

In the dreamy hour of night I'll hie,
When the hum is hushed of the weary fly,
When the lamps are lit, and the curtains drawn,
And sport on my wings till the morning dawn,
In the festive hall where all is joy;

In the chamber hushed, where the sleepers lie;
In the garden bower, where the primrose smiles,
And the chirping cricket the hour beguiles;

In these I'll sport through summer night,
And mortals to vex, I'll bite, I'll bite !

There's one I view with an evil eye;
A flame of pride in his breast I spy;
He breathes in a lute with a master's skill,
And listening souls the rich strains fill
With the rapturous thrill of melody;
But he carries his head so haughtily-
I'll play him a trick;-in his happiest swell,
When the lingering trill, with a magic spell,

Holds all entranced, I'll wing my flight,
And pop on his nose; and I'll bite, I'll bite!

There's a poet, I know,-in the still midnight
He plies the pen by the taper's light,

>

f

And wearied of earth, in a world all his own,
With fancy he rambles, where flowers are strown
Of fadeless hue; and he images there

A creation of beauty in the pure, still air.
With the world around from his sense shut out,
He heeds not the buzz of my round-a-bout;

But when a new image has broken on his sight,
Ere he gives it existence, I'll bite, I'll bite!

And the long-courted vision shall vanish-while I,
In a snug
little corner, shall watch him so shy,
As he thumps his brow in a burning rage,
And dashes his pen o'er the well-filled page.
I see a young maid in her chamber napping,
And I know, that love at her heart is tapping;
She dreams of a youth, and smiles in bliss,
As she pouts out her lips to receive a kiss.

But she shall not taste the gentle delight;

For, I'll light on her lips, and I'll bite, I'll bite!

THE CONTEST UNEQUAL-SYDNEY SMITH.

MR. Bailiff, I have spoken so often on this subject, that I am sure both you and the gentlemen here present, will be obliged to me for saying but little, and that favor I am as willing to confer, as you can be to receive it. I feel most deeply the event which has taken place, because, by putting the two houses of Parliament in collision with each other, it will impede the public business, and diminish the public prosperity. I feel it as a churchman, because I cannot but blush o see so many dignitaries of the church arrayed against the wishes and happiness of the people. I feel it more than all, because I believe it will sow the seeds of deadly hatred between the aristocracy and the great mass of the people. The loss of the bill I do not feel, and for the best of all possi

ble reasons-because I have not the slightest idea that it is lost. I have no more doubt, before the expiration of the winter, that this bill will pass, than I have that the annual tax bills will pass, and greater certainty than this no man can have, for Franklin tells us, there are but two things certain in this world-death and taxes., As for the possibility of the House of Lords preventing ere long a reform of Parliament, I hold it to be the most absurd notion that ever entered into human imagination. I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of reform, reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington ‹n that occasion. In the winter of 1824, there set in a great flood upon that town-the tide rose to an incredible height-the waves rushed in upon the houses, and everything was threatened with destruction. In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling the mop, squeezing out the sea water, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Partington's spirit was up; but I need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest. Gentlemen be at your easebe quiet and steady. You will beat Mrs. Partington.

PHAETHON, OR THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.-JOHN G. SAXE

DAN Phaethon,-so the histories run,—
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus,-but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!

เ

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very

fast coach by the name of 'The Sun'; Running, they say,

Trips every day,

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way,)
All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's 'shay',
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
By the terrible Styx!' said the angry sire,

While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,

To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!'

'I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed !-
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive !'
'Nay Phaëton don't-

I beg you won't,

Just stop a moment and think upon't! Your quite too young,' continued the sage, 'To tend a coach at your early age!

Besides, you see,

Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly' riled',

Depend upon't, the coach will be spiled'-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day,

So mind and don't be foolish Pha !'

But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd,—
He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force,
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx no doubt
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.
So calling Phaeton up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice:

""Parce stimulis, utere loris!"

(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip,-they're ticklish things-
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
"Medio tutissimus ibis",

As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
(Who was going to quod between two watchmen!)
So mind your eye and spare your goad,

Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!'

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
' Crack—whack—

Whack-crack'