Whereon when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap. Oh, let it such a volume be

As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see,

Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.

THE LYTTEL BOY.

SOMETIME there ben a lyttel boy That wolde not renne and play,

And helpless like that little tyke

Ben allwais in the way.

"Goe, make you merrie with the rest," His weary moder cried;

But with a frown he catcht her gown And hong untill her side.

That boy did love his moder well,
Which spake him faire, I ween;

He loved to stand and hold her hand
And ken her with his een;
His cosset bleated in the croft,
His toys unheeded lay, -

He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,

Ben allwais in the way.

Godde loveth children and doth gird
His throne with soche as these,

And He doth smile in plaisaunce while
They cluster at His knees;

And sometime, when He looked on earth And watched the bairns at play,

He kenned with joy a lyttel boy

Ben allwais in the way.

And then a moder felt her heart

How that it ben to-torne,

She kissed eche day till she ben gray

The shoon he use to worn;

No bairn let hold untill her gown
Nor played upon the floore, -
Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy
Ben in the way no more!

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE.

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,
You bet he made Rome howl, sir,
Until he filled his date;

With a massic-laden ditty

And a classic maiden pretty

He painted up the city,

And Mæcenas paid the freight!