If folks would let the world go round,
And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners. Such doleful looks would not be found,
To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
One plagues himself about the sun,
And puzzles on, through every weather,
What time he'll rise-how long he'll run,
And when he'll leave us altogether.
Now, matters it a pebble-stone,
Whether he dines at six or seven?
If they don't leave the sun alone,
At last they'll plague him out of heaven ! Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!
Another spins from out his brains,
Fine cobwebs, to amuse his neighbours,
And gets, for all his toils and pains,
Reviewed and laughed at for his labours;
Fame is his star! and fame is sweet:
And praise is pleasanter than honey-
I write at just so much a sheet,
And Messrs. Longman pay the money:
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
My brother gave his heart away
To Mercandotti, when he met her, She married Mr. Ball one day
He's gone to Sweden to forget her! I had a charmer, too-and sighed
And raved all day and night about her! She caught a cold, poor thing! and died, And I-am just as fat without her! Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything!
Ah! in this troubled world of ours,
A laughter mine's a glorious treasure;
And separating thorns from flowers,
Is half a pain and half a pleasure;
And why be grave instead of gay ?
Why feel athirst while folks are quaffing ?
Oh! trust me, whatsoe'er they say,
There's nothing half so good as laughing!
Never cry while you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE.
[Bret Harte was born in 1839. His "Luck of Roaring Camp" is, perhaps, the finest specimen of its kind in the American literature.]
Beetling walls with ivy grown,
Frowning heights of mossy stone;
Turret, with its flaunting flag
Flung from battlemented crag ;
Dungeon-Keep and fortalice
Looking down a precipice
O'er the darkly glancing wave
By the Lurline-haunted cave;
Robber haunt and maiden bower,
Home of Love and Crime and Power,
That's the scenery, in fine,
Of the Legends of the Rhine.
One bold baron, double-dyed
Bigamist and parricide,
And, as most the stories run,
Partner of the Evil One;
Injured innocence in white,
Fair, but idiotic quite,
Wringing of her lily hands;
Valour fresh from Paynim lands,
Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,
Minstrel fraught with many a tale,—
Are the actors that combine
In the Legends of the Rhine.
Bell-mouthed flagons round a board;
Suits of armour, shield, and sword;
Kerchief with its bloody stain ;
Ghosts of the untimely slain;
Thunder-clap and clanking chain;
Headsman's block and shining axe;
Thumbscrews, crucifixes, racks;
Midnight-tolling chapel bell,
Heard across the gloomy fell,-
These, and other pleasant facts,
Are the properties that shine
In the Legends of the Rhine.
Maledictions, whispered vows
Underneath the linden boughs;
Murder, bigamy, and theft;
Travellers of goods bereft;
Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,-
Everything but honest toil
Are the deeds that best define
Every Legend of the Rhine.
That Virtue always meets reward,
But quicker when it wears a sword;
That Providence has special care
Of gallant knight and lady fair;
That villains, as a thing of course,
Are always haunted by remorse,—
Is the moral I opine,
Of the Legends of the Rhine.
WANTED-A GOVERNESS.
GEORGE DUBOURG.
A GOVERNESS wanted-well fitted to fill
The post of tuition with competent skill-
In a gentleman's family highly genteel.
Superior attainments are quite indispensable,
With everything, too, that's correct and ostensible;
Morals of pure unexceptionability;
Manners well formed, and of strictest gentility.
The pupils are five-ages, six to sixteen
All as promising girls as ever were seen
And besides (though 'tis scarcely worth while to put that in There is one little boy-but he only learns Latin.
The lady must teach all the several branches
Whereinto polite education now launches;
She's expected to teach the French tongue like a native,
And be to her pupils of all its points dative;
Italian she must know à fond, nor needs banish
Whatever acquaintance she may have with Spanish ;
Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German,
In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann.
The harp and piano-cela va sans dire,
With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier.
In drawing in pencil and chalks, and the tinting
That's called Oriental, she must not be stint in;
She must paint upon paper, and satin, and velvet;
And if she knows gilding, she'll not need to shelve it.
Dancing, of course, with the newest gambades,
The Polish mazurka, and best galopades:
Arithmetic, history, joined with chronology,
Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology,
Grammar, and satin-stitch, netting, geography,
Astronomy, use of the globes, and cosmography.
"Twere also as well she should be calisthenical,
That her charges' young limbs may be pliant to any call.
Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition,
Must be superintended without intermission:
At home, she must all habits check that disparage,
And when they go out must attend to their carriage.
Her faith must be orthodox-temper most pliable,-
Health good-and reference quite undeniable.
These are the principal matters. Au reste,
Address, Bury-street, Mrs. General Peste.
As the salary's moderate, none need apply
Who more on that point than comfort rely.
THE TINKER AND THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. DR. JOHN WOLCOT.
[Better known as "Peter Pindar." Born 1738; died 1819.]
THE meanest creature somewhat may contain,
As Providence ne'er makes a thing in vain.
Upon a day, a poor and trav'lling tinker,
In Fortune's various tricks a constant thinker,
Pass'd in some village near a miller's door,
Where, lo! his eye did most astonish'd catch
The miller's daughter peeping o'er the hatch,
Deform'd and monstrous ugly to be sure.
Struck with the uncommon form, the tinker started,
Just like a frighten'd horse, or murd'rer carted,
Up gazing at the gibbet and the rope;
Turning his brain about, in a brown study
(For, as I've said, his brain was not so muddy),
Zounds!" quoth the tinker, "I have now some hope
Fortune, the jade, is not far off, perchance."
And then began to rub his hands and dance.
Now, all so full of love, o'erjoyed he ran,
Embrac'd and squeez'd Miss Grist, and thus began:
'My dear, my soul, my angel, sweet Miss Grist, Now may never mend a kettle more,
If ever I saw one like you before!"
Then nothing loth, like Eve, the nymph he kiss'd.
Now, very sensibly indeed, Miss Grist
Thought opportunity should not be miss'd;
Knowing that prudery oft lets slip a joy;
Thus was Miss Grist too prudent to be coy.
For really 'tis with girls a dangerous farce,
To flout a swain when offers are but scarce.
She did not scream, and cry, "I'll not be woo'd;
Keep off, you dingy fellow-don't be rude;
I'm fit for your superiors, tinker."-No,
Indeed she treated not the tinker so.
But lo! the damsel with her usual squint,
Suffered her tinker-lover to imprint
Sweet kisses on her lips, and squeeze her hand,
Hug her, and say the softest things unto her,
And in love's plain and pretty language woo her,
Without a frown, or even a reprimand.
Soon won, the nymph agreed to be his wife,
And, when the tinker chose, be tied for life.
Now to the father the brisk lover hied,
Who at his noisy mill so busy plied,
Grinding, and taking handsome toll of corn,
Sometimes, indeed, too handsome to be borne.
"Ho! Master Miller," did the tinker say
Forth from his cloud of flour the miller came: 'Nice weather, Master Miller-charming dayHeaven's very kind."-The miller said the same. "Now, miller, possibly you may not guess
At this same business I am come about: 'Tis this, then-know, I love your daughter Bess :-There, Master Miller!-now the riddle's out.
I'm not for mincing matters, sir! d'ye see-
I like your daughter Bess, and she likes me."
"Poh!" quoth the miller, grinning at the tinker,
"Thou dost not mean to marriage to persuade her;
Ugly as is Old Nick, I needs must think her,
Though, to be sure, she is as heav'n has made her.
"No, no, though she's my daughter, I'm not blind;
But, tinker, what hath now possessed thy mind;
Thou'rt the first offer she has met, by dad—
But tell me, tinker, art thou drunk or mad ?"
"No-I'm not drunk nor mad," the tinker cried,
But Bet's the maid I wish to make my bride;
No girl in these two eyes doth Bet excel."
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