Who ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn?

Who said my mother was no nurse.

And physicked me and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

Who left me in my seventh year,

A comfort to my mother dear,

And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,

Till all my bones came through my skin,

Then called me "ugly little sin?"

Who said my mother was a Turk,

And took me home—and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

Who "of all earthly things" would boast,

"He hated others' brats the most,"

And therefore made me feel my post?

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,

And always laid them at my door,

Till many a bitter bang I bore?

Who took me home when mother died,

Again with father to reside,

Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide?

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys

And when I played cried "What a noise?"—

Girls always hector over boys—

Who used to share in what was mine,

Or took it all, did he incline,

'Cause I was eight, and he was nine?

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad,"

And gave me sixpence, "all he had";

But at the stall the coin was bad?

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass,

But when misfortune came to pass,

Referr'd me to the pump? Alas!

Through all this weary world, in brief,

Who ever sympathized with grief,

Or shared my joy—my sole relief?

One morning, ere my usual time

I rose, about the seventh chime,

When little stunted boys that climb

And as I walked, I saw indeed

A sample of the sooty breed,

Though he was rather run to seed,

A mongrel tint he seemed to take,

Poetic simile to make,

DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break,

From side to side he crossed oblique,

Like Frenchman who has friends to seek,

And yet no English word can speak,

And while he sought the dingy job

His lab'ring breast appeared to throb,

And half a hiccup half a sob

To cry amain he had by rote

He yearn'd, but law forbade the note,

Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,

I watched him and the glimpse I snatched

Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd

With red, as if the soot had catch'd

And soon I saw the tear-drop stray,

He did not care to brush away;

Thought I, the cause he will betray—

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging!

But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging.

They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb,

To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum.

But they can't undo natur—as sure as ever the morning begins to peep,

Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep

As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep!

For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy,

And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy.

Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up.

Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup!

If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border,

Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order.

I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us

As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus.

God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings?

I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings.

For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing,

And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing.

Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks—to do the unpartial job,

If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob.

Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders,

Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows?

There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City;

Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty.

I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses,

And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses.

Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut?

Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut.

Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance,

And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance;

If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather,

For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together.

I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers,

Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures,

A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other,

And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother.

They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles,

But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles.

If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such peeps,

I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps.

Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally,

Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh,

When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew,

And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue.

As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher,

But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer?

There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows,

But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows?

Do we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin,

And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon?

But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves,

Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves!

Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more?

We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door.

And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations,

For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations!

And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly,

For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,—

To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!—

My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand,

I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand,

The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,—

When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud,

And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene,

Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow;

A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below,

And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear;

In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere;

Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk

Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk;

Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath

A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath,

Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet—

And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet!

Of course I bowed my lowest bow—of all the things on earth,

The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth,

To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon,

A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman!

Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd,

Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;

There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,

Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye!

With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,

I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand;

And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise,

Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face,

She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;

"Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;

"It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet!

Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,

This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!"

Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,

A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands,

Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face

They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race.

"Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof,

"Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof!

Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,

And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth."

Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,

She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL—for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee,

But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free,

And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride,

Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side;

Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,

Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,

A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist

Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste.

Methought—but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,

Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white!

To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,

The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse:

Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,

Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,

I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds

Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;—

As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero,

Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,

Tempestuous tail—to picture him description vainly begs!

His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath—

Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death?

Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine

To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign

To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied:

"Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke,

Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke,

So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born,

Or any of its ridings, this would be a blessed morn;

But, hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse

That I can always honor, but I never could endorse—

To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite

Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight:

In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still,

I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will;

Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle

On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle.

In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low,

"I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies,

And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes;

"Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend,

There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend,

That tells me you're of Arab race,—whatever spot of earth,

Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth,

The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse

By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse;

But this—these desert sands—these palms, and cedars waving wild,

All, all, adopt thee as their own—an oriental child—

The cloud may hide the sun awhile—but soon or late, no doubt,

The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out!

I read the starry characters—and lo! 'tis written there,

Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare,

A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould,

Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly—I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom

Had stifled her!—the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom;

With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance,

I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance,

And felt myself, and saw myself—the phantasy was horrid!—

Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead!

On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r,

I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear;

I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife,

And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life;

"Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit,

Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit,

Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill,

Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will."

Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel,

The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal!

"Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain,

Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein;

Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark,

And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark!

As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild

But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I—(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth,

'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth!

A playful child,—so full of life!—a little fair-haired boy,

His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy!

Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now!

That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow;

A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse,

That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!"

Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now!

A chill ran all my marrow through—the drops were on my brow!

I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare,

And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air.

How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail;

While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale!

How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky,

As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly!

While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave

My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play—

Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh—

Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch—

Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,—

I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small,

To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall!

For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast,

Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last!

In agony I shook,—and yet, although congealed by fears,

My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears;

I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair,

Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir—I could not speak—I could not even see—

A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me,

I tried to pray, but found no words—tho' ready ripe to weep,

No tear would flow,—o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,—

When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt,

Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front,

And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn,

I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight

Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight;

Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,—

"Off with the bridle—quick!—and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,—and starting with a bound,

The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground;

And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands,

Away we flew—away! away! across the shifting sands!

My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race,

But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace,

For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force

Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course—

One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea,

The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee!

And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense,

Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain,

A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain!

What tongue could tell,—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride?

Now off—now on—now up—now down,—and flung from side to side!

I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone—

My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan—

My joints were racked—my back was strained, so firmly I had clung—

My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue—

When lo!—farewell all hope of life!—she turn'd and faced the rocks,

None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!

So thought I,—but I little knew the desert pride and fire,

Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire;

Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone,

Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;—

Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length

Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength—

My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!

She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;

Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,

I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing—

But oh! the crash!—the hideous shock!—the million sparks around!

Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth,

One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,

And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;

For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,

The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.

My heart was still—my pulses stopp'd—midway 'twixt life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,

Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,

Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die.

Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife—

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—

But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast?

Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

One Sunday morning—service done—

'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,

A knot of bumpkins stood to chat

Of that and this, and this and that;

What people said of Polly Hatch—

Which side had won the-cricket match;

And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;—

How barley, beans, and 'taters sold—

What men could swallow at a meal—

When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal—

And who was taken off to jail—

And where they brew'd the strongest ale—

At last this question they address,

"What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,

It be the fancy farming line,

Like yonder gemman,—him I mean,

As took the Willa nigh the Green,—

And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;

And gave his porkers hay to eat;

And sent his footman up to town,

To ax the Lonnon gentry down,

To be so kind as make his hay,

Exactly on St. Swithin's day;—

With consequences you may guess—

That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg

Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;

But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,

As if he twigg'd the reason why,

And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance,

He didn't give the noose a chance;

So Master Blogg at last lays off,

And shams a rattle at the trough,

When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog

Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,

And flops him down in all the muck,

As hadn't been swept up by luck—

Now that, accordin' to my guess,

Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat;

I'ze bring a worser case nor that!"

"Last Friday week, I takes a start

To Reading, with our horse and cart;

Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down,

I meets a crony at the Crown;

And what betwixt the ale and Tom,

It's dark afore I starts for home;

So whipping hard, by long and late,

At last we reaches nigh the gate,

And, sure enough, there Master stand,

A lantern flaring in his hand,—

'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear?

Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear!

He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!'

There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB.

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap!

A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,

Only to fetch his milking-pails,

When up he shies like head or tails;

Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,

Till he had toss'd the best o' three;—

And there lies Tom with broken bones,

A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones;

Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,

'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,—

Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case,

For that will keep the ribs in place;'

But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,

Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw?

That's summut to the pint—yes, yes,

That's Hagricultural Distress!"

SIMON.

"Well, turn and turn about is fair:

Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare;

But nothing to my load of hay—

You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,

And cash was wanted for the rent;

So up to Lonnon I was sent,

To sell as prime a load of hay,

As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,

A chap comes up to buy my load,

And looks, and looks about the cart,

Pretending to be 'cute and smart;

But no great judge, as people say,

'Cause why? he never smelt the hay.

Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,

He'll give a simple price mayhap,

Such buyers comes but now and then,

So slap I axes nine pun' ten.

'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick

He taps his leathers with his stick.

'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay,

Just while we bargin 'bout the hay.

So in we goes, my chap and me;

He drinks to I, and I to he;

At last, says I, a little gay,

'It's time to talk about that hay,'

'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man,

Live, and let live—for that's my plan.'

'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say,

It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,'

And so we chaffers for a bit,

At long and last the odds we split;

And off he sets to show the way,

Where up a yard I leaves the hay.

Then, from the pocket of his coat,

He pulls a book, and picks a note.

'That's Ten,' says he—'I hope to pay

Tens upon tens for loads of hay.'

'With all my heart, and soon,' says I,

And feeling for the change thereby;

But all my shillings com'd to five—

Says he, 'No matter, man alive!

There's something in your honest phiz

I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;—

You'll pay next time you come to town.'

'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.'

'All right,' says he.—Thinks I 'huzza!

He's got no bargain of the hay!'

"Well, home I goes, with empty cart,

Whipping the horses pretty smart,

And whistling ev'ry yard o' way,

To think how well I'd sold the hay—

And just cotch'd Master at his greens

And bacon, or it might be beans,

Which didn't taste the worse surely,

To hear his hay had gone so high.

But lord! when I laid down the note,

It stuck the victuals in his throat,

And chok'd him till his face all grew

Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue;

With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails!

They seem'd a-coming out like snails!

'A note,' says he, half mad with passion,

'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!'

Now, wasn't that a pretty mess?

That's Hagricultural Distress."

COLIN.

"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing!

You only argy in a ring;

'Cause why? You never cares to look,

Like me, in any larned book;

But schollards know the wrong and right

Of every thing in black and white.

"Well, Farming, that's its common name,

And Agriculture be the same:

So put your Farming first, and next

Distress, and there you have your text.

But here the question comes to press,

What farming be, and what's distress?

Why, farming is to plough and sow,

Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow,

Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed

The proper stock to fat and feed.

Distress is want, and pain, and grief,

And sickness,—things as wants relief;

Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe;

In short, ax any overseer,—

Well, now, the logic for to chop,

Where's the distress about a crop?"

"There's no distress in keeping sheep,

I likes to see 'em frisk and leap;

There's no distress in seeing swine

Grow up to pork and bacon fine;

There's no distress in growing wheat

And grass for men or beasts to eat;

And making of lean cattle fat,

There's no distress, of course, in that.

Then what remains?—But one thing more,

And that's the Farming of the Poor!"

HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.

"Yea!—aye!—surely!—for sartin!—yes!—

That's Hagricultural Distress!"

I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!

Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife,

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!

Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair;

As if time, when those furrows were made by the share,

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,

Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose,

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,

Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,

Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts,

Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,

Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,

Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place,

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,

But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West.

On Anna's soft and gentle breast

The darkness clos'd around, so dear

And thus she murmur'd at my ear,

"That Mister Bond has call'd again,

And all the Todds are coming up

I quite forgot to tell you John

I'm sure there's something going on

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,

Of course, if we go out of town,

I really think the Jones's house

I think I told you Mrs. Pope

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day,

And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed

And, lord! there's such a letter come,

Of course you don't intend to go—

III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

(But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)—

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin—

(Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air—

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,

(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint—

(Where did he learn that squint?)

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life—

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South,

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,—

(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV. A SERENADE.

Hither come, some power divine!

Close his lids, or open mine!

Why are not the sons of earth

Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"

Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake—

The more I sing, the more you wake!"

Give him some, or give him all,

I am nodding to his fall!"

"How can I from bedposts keep,

When I'm walking in my sleep?"

My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim—

Who's that fallen—me or him?"