Here's confusion to all canting,

All ❝ man-millinery" creeds: Better far were Shaker ranting

Than this silly faith in weeds.

Down with every form of folly!
Earth with hollow shows is cursed.

At her age 'tis melancholy

To see shams so fondly nursed.

Knaves are everywhere abounding :
With enough of "brass" at call,
Mountebanks go empire-founding
Where their betters seek the wall.

Lo! where Law looks on, scarce heeding How sleek Traffic's wires are pulled; Here, the few to fortune speeding;

There, the millions robbed and fooled!

Half the wealth men waste, so mad, on
War's proud panoply alone,

Year by year, would feast and gladden
All the poor beneath the sun.

Time 'tis men were realizing

They are brothers, one and all, And each others welfare prizing,

Ban all knaves that would them thrall.

To improve the world we live in,
Folded arms will never do;
He who hopeth all from Heaven
Wrongs himself and Heaven too.

Ho for praying less than toiling
For the good time long delayed!
Never faileth Heaven to smile on
All who thus its advent aid.

A MISSING MINSTREL.

(His friends, in consultation with a Wizard, thus address the ghostly Presence.)

KEN you aught of Erin's Bard ?*

Igo and ago.

Is he in this life still spared?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he gone in a balloon,

Igo and ago,

O'er the seas or to the moon?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he above or under ground?

Igo and ago.

In some foul enchantment found?

Iram, coram, dago,

*Not Tom Moore; but the bard Alexander MacLachlan, lately residing in Erin village, Canada West, from whom the above bagatelle in he Scottish-American Journal, soon brought the author a reply to a long unanswered letter.

Taken to a Gipsy life?

Igo and ago:

Ta'en a broomstick ride to Fife?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he 'mong New Yorkers "guessing"?
Igo and ago,

Or fair Bostonian maids caressing?
Iram, coram, dago.

'Neath Canadian snow-wreaths smothered? Igo and ago,

Or in Kentucky tarred and feathered?

Iram, coram, dago.

Was he caught at Harper's Ferry?
Igo and ago.

Crossed he Styx in Charon's wherry?
Iram, coram, dago.

Stands he now beyond Death's portal,
Igo and ago,

Fitly crowned a bard immortal?

Iram, coram, dago.

Was he murdered for his gear?

Wizard haste, resolve all doubt,

Igo and ago;

Let us have the truth right out,
Iram, coram, dago.

Ghostly shade or man alive,

Igo and ago,

We fain would hear how Mac does thrive-
Iram, coram, dago.

January, 1860.

JOHN BULL ON HIS TRAVELS.

JOHN BULL goes on a tour through France;-
Its people dance

And laugh and sing, all happy-rich and poor:
What brainless fools these French are, to be sure!
He never saw such goings on,

He'll write the Times each in and out o't:

That land is blest-that land alone

Where Saxons rule,-that's all about it!

Now goes he grumbling up the Rhine,
Self-superfine,-

Finds Rhenish wines but sorry stuff,
And the calm German "such a muff!"
A boor not fit to come between

The wind and his nobility!

The Teuton thinks the man insane,

And leaves him to his humours free.

Anon he roams through Switzerland:

Its mountains grand,

If grand to him, is pretty much a question
Dependent on the state of his digestion.
He finds the Swiss sans any lord

Or duke or marquis-men who must
Be rulers born: the thing's absurd!
He quits the country in disgust.

The Isles of Greece now wandering through,
Each fairest view

Is fair or foul to him, just as the sinner
Findeth the chances of roast beef for dinner.
He owns indeed the Greeks one day
'Mong nations held the foremost place;
Yet all that granted, what were they
Matched with the Anglo-Saxon race?

At last arrived in Italy

What does he see?

Half-naked beggars swarming everywhere,— A contrast vile, of course, to England fair! Such sights our traveller sets a loathing,He sighs for England once again,

Where, though men starve, 'tis counted nothing, If only they but starve unseen.