And Nature gay, in her bridal array,
But twits me with the spring.
"Oh, but for one short hour,
A respite, however brief,
From these uttered nothings, that should fill
The statesman's mind with grief!
A little more work, a little less talk,
Might ease the common fate;
But the country's smart never touches the heart
Of the Moloch of Debate."
With patience weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy as lead,
The Speaker sat in his chair of state,
Nodding his drowsy head;
And whilst the dull debate
Maintained its sluggish reign,
The dubious doze, which refuses repose-
Which deadens, oft only to deepen, our woes—
Suggested these thoughts to his brain.
AN editor sat on a lofty stool,
A very long pen was stuck in his ear:
Before him productions from rogue and fool,
In hieroglyphics not over clear.
He opened one, and he opened all,
More like a machine than a man
(How imperturbable editors are!)
And thus the medley ran :—
66 Are you for taking the duty off tea ?"
"What's the age of the Pope ?"
"When will the next Good Friday be?"
"Are you pretty well off for
Oblige by stating the longest night."
Did Shelley make a will ?”
"Misther Heedetur, sur, who von the fight,
The Nobbler or Brummagem Bill ?”
GEORGETOWN ROYAL GAZETTE-J. T. FIELDS.
"Is bone-dust really made into bread ?"
"Are the Jumpers increasing in Wales?"
"Where is it that angels fear to tread ?"
'Have you tried the patent scales ?"
"What color was Polyphemus's eye?"
"Was the great Alexander a Spartan ?"
"When may an oyster be said to die?"
Who's the oft-mentioned Betty Martin ?"
Now entered the office an inky youth,
A mass of most picturesque splashing,
"Twould have done him good, a dive after truth,
If but for the sake of the washing.
Awaiting the editor's orders he stood!
No emotion his tattooed face tinted;
Comets and corns were the same to him—
He did not care what was printed.
The editor handed the boy a list
That would cover a drawing-room floor,
And said, "Just insert these initials and say,
We have answered these questions before."
Then he savagely fell to biting his pen
(An unsatisfactory ration),
And said to the boy, "You can state again
The amount of our circulation."
The editor sat on his lofty stool,
Before him a sheet of foolscap lay;
So many subjects claimed his pen,
That he doubted what to say.
On a sudden he thought of the starving world,
And advised a plan to feed her:
He dashed his pen in the pliant ink
Buy the paper, and study the "leader.”
MANY a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,
Could tell, by tasting, just the spot,
And so below he'd "dowse the glim"-
"After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,
This ancient skipper might be found;
No matter how his craft would rock,
He slept for skippers' naps are sound!
The watch on deck would now and then
Run down and wake him, with the lead;
He'd up, and taste, and tell the men
How many miles they went ahead.
One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch,
A curious wag-the peddler's son;
And so he mused (the wanton wretch),
"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.
"We're all a set of stupid fools
To think the skipper knows by tasting
What ground he's on: Nantucket schools
Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead,
And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck-(a parsnip bed)—
And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,
Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,
And then upon the floor he sprung !
The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden-
"Nantucket's sunk, and here we are
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
THERE is, in famous Yankee land,
A class of men yclept tin-peddlers,
A shrewd, sarcastic band
Of busy meddlers:
They scour the country through and through,
Vending their wares, tin pots, tin pans,
Tin ovens, dippers, wash-bowls, cans,
Tin whistles, kettles, or to boil or stew,
Tin cullenders, tin nutmeg-graters,
Tin warming-platters for your fish and 'taters!
In short,
If you will look within
His cart,
And gaze upon the tin
Which glitters there,
So bright and fair,
There is no danger in defying
You to go off without buying.
One of these cunning, keen-eyed gentry
Stopped at a tavern in the country,
Just before night,
And called for bitters for himself, of course,
And fodder for his horse :
This done, our worthy wight
Informed the landlord that his purse was low,
Quite empty, I assure you, sir, and so
I wish you'd take your pay
In something in my way.
Now Boniface supposed himself a wag-
And when he saw that he was sucked,
Was not dispirited, but plucked
Up courage and his trowsers too! Quoth he t' himself, I am not apt to brag, 'Tis true,
But I can stick a feather in my cap
By making fun of this same Yankee chap.
"Well, my good friend,
That we may end
This troublesome affair,
I'll take my pay in ware,
Provided that you've got what suits
My inclination."
"No doubt of that," the peddler cried,
Sans hesitation :
"Well, bring us in a pair of good tin boots!"
"Tin boots!" Our Jonathan espied
His landlord's spindle shanks,
And giving his good Genius thanks
For the suggestion,
Ran out, returned, and then- By goles!
Yes, here's a pair of candle-moulds!
They'll fit you without question!"
IN every country village, where
Ten chimney smokes perfume the air,
Contiguous to a steeple,
Great gentlefolks are found, a score,
Who can't associate any more
With common "country people."
Jack Fallow, born amongst the woods,
From rolling logs, now rolls in goods,
Enough a while to dash on;
Tells negro stories-smokes cigars-
Talks politics-decides on wars—
And lives in stylish fashion.
Tim Oxgoad, lately from the plough,
A polished gentleman is now,
And talks about "country fellows;"
But ask the fop what books he's read,
You'll find the brain-pan of his head
As empty as a bellows.
Miss Faddle, lately from the wheel,
Begins quite lady-like to feel,
And talks affectedly genteel,
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