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"But, brother sinner, pray explain
What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for thy toes:
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes;
Merry as if that nought had happened—burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know
That just before I ventur'd on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas."
THE EVERLASTING BREECHES.
It chanc'd on a time that an Irish dear honey,
same! His purse stuff d with chink, and his heart full of glee, Pat soon found a shop to his mind, d'ye see? On a prime piece of stuff now his eyes quickly casting, And asking the name, he was told " everlasting!" "If it be everlasting," quoth Pat, with a leer, "By the holy St. Patrick! I'll -purchase two pair .'"
WEDLOCK IS A TICKLISH THING.
Wedlock is a ticklish thing,
Hey merrily ho, and ho merrily hey;
And will joy or sorrow bring,
Oh, how delightful pass their days away,
Who, never spiteful, only toy and play.
Spo&m]—Will you take a walk this morning, my love? Yes, my dear. Then you had better pnt on your clogs, my chicken, for fear of catching cold. And pray do you put on your great coat, lest you might increase your cough. Thank you, my darling, fur your care of me. When do you intend to instruct our new willa on Ampstead Eath. Vhy as soon as them 'ere artichecks sends in their demensions, and so on. Don't forget to have towers and such like things, to make it look all the world as though it wur a little castle. I von't, I von't ; and I'll have a worander in front, that you may look at the folk go up and down on a Sunday arternoon. Can't we cover the front with shells to make it look like a, like a—1 know, a emintage yon means. Yes, my dear. So ve vill, my duck. Oh,'
Wedlock's joys are soft and sweet,
When fond hearts in union meet,
Let us only change the scene,
Take a peep behind the screen,
What she proposes, be it good or bad,
He still opposes till he drives her mad.
Spoken]—Do you dine at home to-day, sir? I can't tell, ma'am. What shall I provide? What you like. Would you like a roasted chicken? You know I don't like roasted chicken. Well, boiled then? Worse and worse. What will you have then? Nothing. Very well, sir. Very well, ma'am. I say, Mr. Shrimp, vhen am I to have that 'ere new polese, vhich you promised me? Vhen you treats a gemman like a gemman, and conducts yourself like a lady. O, not till then. No. Wery veil, sir, then you will let me perish with cold. That I'm sure you von't, for you are alvays in ot vater. O, I vish you vere—At the devil; I knows you do, but I'll live a few years longer on purpose to plague you. Thus
Wedlock is a dreadful state,
Ho terrible hey, and hey terrible ho!
When cold hearts are joined by fate,
THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC.
Cardinal Wolsey was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says.
To swell beyond his size and span;
But had he seen a player in our days
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,
He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Which is, moreover, all alive and reaL
This player, when the peace enabled shoals
Of our odd fishes
Although his wishes
In this most laudable employ
He found himself at Lille one afternoon, And, that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon, Out of the town he took a stroll, Refreshing in the fields his soul, With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces, And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.
When we are pleasantly employed time flies;
Until the moon began to shine,
Pulled out his watch, and cried—" Past nine, Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten."—
Backward he turn'd his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main;
And, though 'tis plain
(Those who had seen him would confess it) he
Marched well for one of such obesity. Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping,
He puffed and blew along the road, ' • Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping,
When in his path he met a clown
Returning from the town. Tell me," he panted, in a thawing state, "Dost think I can get in friend, at the gate?"
"Get in !" replied the hesitating loon, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, '' Why—yes, Sir,—I should think you might,'
"A load of hay went in this afternoon."
NAPOLEON AT THE KREMLIN.
Deeply shadow' d by the night,
And his lonely hour is bright
Where his plumed host appears,
And its soaring eagle bears
Its boast of blood and tears
Hush'd in silent midnight sleep
The city lies below;
As he paceth to and fro,
"Say! hath the licensed hour, With years of danger bought,
Hath the wine-cup's wanton power To my hardy veterans taught Deeds of riot—rapine—shame?
Have they bade yon flames arise
To tell the crimson skies
That the stain of outrage lies
"Or doth my warriors' mirth
Yon fires in triumph raise, To scare the shuddering earth
With the terrors of their blaze?
Like a flag of war unfurl'd, Doth yon flood of radiance flow From our camp ?"—" Invader,—no! Tis a beacon-fire, whose glow
Cheers the world !"—
"Lo! its fury rageth higher,
Column'd upward to the sky, Like that pyramid of fire Gleaming of old, on high To guide the people of the Lord.— Soldiers of Fame! come forth,— Let the Empress of the North Note your valour's daring worth, At my word.