THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three

And

One's money from his purse,

very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;

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 waliet out,

Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you 're going out to dine,

Some filthy creature begs

You'll hear about the cannon-ball

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;

paw,

That stunned you with his

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!

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,

And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,

And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

Wake

up, wake up, my duck-legged man,

And stir your solid pegs!

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider legs;

What though you 're awkward at the trade,

There's time enough to learn,—