In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,

That what we christen "Natural on Monday, The wondrous History of bird and beast,

Can be Unnatural because it's Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird-or the filial Stork?

The punctual Crane-the providential Raven?
The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
That feather'd marvel with a human tongue,
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that own'd an Oriental Shepherd-
That Desert-ship the Camel of the East,

The horn'd Rhinoceros-the spotted Leopard— The creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than MondayThe elephant, although he wears no band,

Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature,
Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature"? Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on SundayBut what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)
But that the Papists, like some fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed up Dens with their theology?
Is Brahma's Bull-a Hindoo god at home-
A papal bull to be tied up till Monday-
Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,

Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

A BLACK JOB

"No doubt the pleasure is as great,

Of being cheated as to cheat."-HUDIBRAS.

THE history of human-kind to trace,

Since Eve-the first of dupes-our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race

Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!
A rage that time seems only to redouble-
The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes,
For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.
No matter what,-to pasture cows on stubble,
To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,
Or light with gas the whole celestial cope-
Only propose to blow a bubble,

And Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap!-it reminds me of a little tale,

Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,
When rustic games and merriment prevail--
But here's my story:

Once on a time-no matter when-
A knot of very charitable men
Set up a Philanthropical Society,
Professing on a certain plan,
To benefit the race of man,
And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior-as in vermin
The sable is to ermine,

Nobody knew if they were clean or not—

On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot!
Not to forget more serious complaints

That even while they join'd in pious hymn,
So black they were and grim,

In face and limb,

They look'd like Devils, tho' they sang like Saints! The thing was undeniable !

They wanted washing! not that slight ablution
To which the skin of the White Man is liable,
Merely removing transient pollution-

But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing
And scrubbing,

Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head
With stiff, strong, saponaceous lather,
And pails of water-hottish rather,
But not so boiling as to turn 'em red!

So spoke the philanthropic man

Who laid, and hatch'd, and nursed the plan—
And oh to view its glorious consummation!
The brooms and mops,

The tubs and slops,

The baths and brushes in full operation!

To see each Crow, or Jim, or John,

Go in a raven and come out a swan !

While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels,

Black Venus rises from the soapy surge,

And all the little Niggerlings emerge

As lily-white as mussels.

Sweet was the vision-but alas !

However in prospectus bright and sunny,

To bring such visionary scenes to pass

One thing was requisite, and that was-money! Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks and collars, shirts and frills,