"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin', shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;

FROM THE BAB BALLADS."

"T WAS on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone, on a piece of stone,
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he;

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key :-

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,

For I could n't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said :—

"O elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,

We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, Which
of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom.
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be.

I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will cook you?'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

If I did not take care,

Would come in for a share;
Which I no wise intended
Till their manners were mended.
Of that there's no sign,

I do therefore enjoin,
And do strictly command,
Of which witness my hand,
That naught I have got
Be brought to hotch-pot;
But I give and devise
As much as in me lies
To the son of my mother,
My own dear brother,
To have and to hold,
All my silver and gold,
Both sutton and potten,
Until the world's rotten,
As the affectionate pledges
Of his brother.

ECHO.

I ASKED of Echo, 't other day,

JOHN HEDGES.

(Whose words are few and often funny,) What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony?
Quoth Echo, plainly, "Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry?—should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply, - "Nary flirt!" What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly, - "Leave her !*

But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure, or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision, -"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid

-

BESIDE, he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read every text and gloss over;
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath,
He understood b' implicit faith.
Whatever sceptic could inquire for,
For every why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go :
All which he understood by rote,
And, as occasion served, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong;
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook the one

For the other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to acts,
And knew their natures by abstracts;
Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly;
Where truth in person does appear,
Like words congealed in northern air:
He knew what's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

LOGIC OF HUDIBRAS.

HE was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide

A hair 'twixt south and southwest side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute :
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:

All this by syllogism true,

in mood and figure he would do.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

THE VIRTUOSO.

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER'S STYLE AND STANZA.

Videmus

Nugari solitos."- PERSIUS.

WHILOM by silver Thames's gentle stream,
In London town there dwelt a subtle wight,
A wight of mickle wealth, and mickle fame,
Book-learned and quaint: a Virtuoso hight.
Uncommon things, and rare, were his delight;
From musings deep his brain ne'er gotten ease,
Nor ceased he from study, day or night;

Until (advancing onward by degrees)

He knew whatever breeds on earth or air or seas.

He many a creature did anatomize,

Almost unpeopling water, air, and land; Beasts, fishes, birds, snails, caterpillars, flies, Were laid full low by his relentless hand, That oft with gory crimson was distained;

He many a dog destroyed, and many a cat; Of fleas his bed, of frogs the marshes drained, Could tellen if a mite were lean or fat,

And read a lecture o'er the entrails of a gnat.

He knew the various modes of ancient times,

Their arts and fashions of each different guise, Their weddings, funerals, punishments for crimes, Their strength, their learning eke, and rarities; Of old habiliments, each sort and size,

Male, female, high and low, to him were known; Each gladiator dress, and stage disguise;

With learned, clerkly phrase he could have shown

How the Greek tunic differed from the Roman gown.

A curious medallist, I wot, he was,

And boasted many a course of ancient coin; Well as his wife's he knewen every face,

From Julius Cæsar down to Constantine: For some rare sculpture he would oft ypine, (As green-sick damosels for husbands do ;) And when obtainéd, with enraptured eyne, He'd run it o'er and o'er with greedy view, And look, and look again, as he would look it through.

His rich museum, of dimensions fair,

With goods that spoke the owner's mind was fraught:

Things ancient, curious, value-worth, and rare, From sea and land, from Greece and Rome, were

brought,

Which he with mighty sums of gold had bought: On these all tides with joyous eyes he pored; And, sooth to say, himself he greater thought,

As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp,

There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp, And at everybody as passed that road

And venever he flung his stick or his stone,

He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."

"Let me alone, for I loves to shy
These bits of things at the passers-by;
Let me alone, for I've got your tin,
And lots of other traps snugly in;
Let me alone, I am rigging a boat
To grab votever you've got afloat;
In a veek or so I expects to come
And turn you out of your 'ouse and 'ome;
I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan;
"All I axes is, Let me alone."

Just then came along, on the self-same vay,
Another Old Cove, and began for to say,
"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!
You've ben let alone — a darned site too long!
Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!
Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)
Let go that stone! If you once show fight,
I'll knock you higher than any kite.

You must have a lesson to stop your tricks,
And cure you of shying them stones and sticks;
And I'll have my hardware back, and my
cash,

And knock your scow into tarnal smash;
| And if ever I catches you round my ranch,
I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
The best you can do is to go to bed,
And keep a decent tongue in your head ;
For I reckon, before you and I are done,
You'll wish you had let honest folks alone."

The Old Cove stopped, and t'other Old Cove,
He sot quite still in his cypress grove,
And he looked at his stick, revolvin' slow,
Vether 't were safe to shy it, or no ;
And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,
"All that I axed vos, Let me alone."

H. P. H. BROWNEL

EVENING.

BY A TAILOR.

DAY hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in my early years,

When these young hands first closed upon a goose;
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,
it was an heir-loom

From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal with it,
And it did burn me, O, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; - I can feel With all around me ;I can hail the flowers

That sprig earth's mantle, and yon quiet bird,

That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes :
A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,

Which popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limped, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried,
Had his soul whitewashed all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half-way, -
Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended
knees,

Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pil
grim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear,
As for Loretto, I shall not get there ;
No, to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha' n't lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 't is that you are not in pain.

What power hath worked a wonder for your toes
Whilst I just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,

Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,