Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf, A spirit-bottle-empty of "the cratur"? To clench the fact, Myself, once guilty of one small rash act, Quite in a hurry, Felt all this flurry, And spiritual scurry, From prompter's bell, A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce — There's no denying I felt in all four elements at once! My head was swimming, while my arms were flying! My legs for running — all the rest was frying! Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, Thy pens so innocent of goose! For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Discarding port and sherry, Drink" Perry!" Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man! And when, ah me! far distant be the hour! Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, IT'S very NUMBER ONE. VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY. hard! and so it is, to live in such a row,— And witness this that every miss but me has got a beau.— For Love goes calling up and down, but here he seems to shun; I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number One! I'm sick of all the double knocks that come to Number Four! That Number Three, I often see a lover at the door ; Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear exactly to her mind,- Yet arts that thrive at Number Five don't take at Number 'T is hard, with plenty in the street, and plenty passing by,- shy; 1 And Mrs. Smith across the way has got a grown-up son, But, la! he hardly seems to know there is a Number One! There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, but he's intent on pelf, And though he's pious will not love his neighbor as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale the goods had quite a run! And here I've got my single lot on hand at Number One! My mother often sits at work and talks of props and stays, Once only, when the flue took fire, one Friday afternoon, I am not old, I am not plain, nor awkward in my gait I'm sure white satin made her look as brown as any bun At Number Six they say Miss Rose has slain a score of hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been quite prodigal of darts. It's very hard, and so it is, to live in such a row! LINES ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE. BY DORCAS DOVE. AND is it thus ye welcome Peace, From mouths of forty-pounding Bores? She asks for no triumphal Arch; No Steeples for their ropy Tongues; She wants no Noise of mobbing Throats When War has closed his bloodshot Eye? Returning to Domestic Loves, When War has ceased with all its Ills, Captains should come like sucking Doves, With Olive Branches in their Bills. No need there is of vulgar Shout, Bells, Cannons, Trumpets, Fife and Drum, And Soldiers marching all about, To let us know that Peace is come. O, mild should be the Signs, and meek, Lo! where the Soldier walks, alas! With Scars received on foreign Grounds; The Oil that should be poured in Wounds? The bleeding Gaps of War to close, THE DEMON-SHIP. 'T WAS off the Wash - the sun went down the sea looked black and grim, For stormy clouds with murky fleece were mustering at the brim; Titanic shades! enormous gloom! as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky! Down went my helm-close reefed the tack held freely in my hand With ballast snug-I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee; my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! What darksome caverns yawned before! what jagged steeps behind! Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place; |