She'll sometimes grip My buggy whip, And make me feel the thong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! Against my life She'll take a knife, Or fork, and dart the prong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! I sometimes think I'll take to drink And hector when I'm strong of it; For I am small, And she is tall, And that's the short and long of it! 60 POEM,-FROM THE POLISH. Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following verses. FROM Seventy-two North latitude, Dear Kitty I indite; But first I'd have you understand, How hard it is to write. Of thoughts that breathe and words that burn, My Kitty do not think,— |