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BOATMAN.

Bill, give that sheet another haul-she'll fetch it up this reach!

MRS. F.

I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech!

I wonder what it is, now, but I never felt so queer!

BOATMAN.

Bill, mind your luff-why Bill, I say, she's yawing-keep her near!

MRS. F.

Keep near! we're going farther off; the land's behind our backs.

BOATMAN.

Be easy, Ma'am, it's all correct, that's only cause we tacks:

We shall have to beat about a bit-Bill, keep her out to sea.

MRS. F.

Beat who about? keep who at sea?-how black they look at me!

BOATMAN.

It's veering round-I knew it would! off with her head! stand by!

MRS. F.

Off with her head! whose? where? what with? -an axe I seem to spy!

BOATMAN.

She can't not keep her own, you see; we shall have to pull her in!

MRS. F.

They'll drown me, and take all I have! my life's not worth a pin!

BOATMAN.

Look out you know, be ready, Bill-just when she takes the sand!

MRS. F.

The sand-O Lord! to stop my mouth! how every thing is planned!

BOATMAN.

The handspike, Bill-quick, bear a hand! now Ma'am, just step ashore!

MRS. F.

What! ain't I going to be killed-and weltered in my gore?

Well, Heaven be praised! but I'll not go a-sailing any more!

NOVEMBER.

No sun-no moon!

No morn-no noon

No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of dayNo sky-no earthly view

No distance looking blue

No road

-no street no "t'other side the way

No end to any Row

No indications where the Crescents go-
No top to any Steeple-

No recognitions of familiar people-
No Courtesies for showing 'em-
No knowing 'em-

No travelling at all-no locomotion,
No inkling of the way-no notion-
"No go"-by land or ocean-
No mail-no post-

No news from any foreign coast-
No park-no ring-no afternoon gentility-
No company-no nobility—

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member-
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds-
November!

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THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,
My curtains drawn and all is snug;
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,
And Tray is sitting on the rug.
Last night I had a curious dream,
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

She looked so fair, she sang so well,
I could but woo and she was won,
Myself in blue, the bride in white,
The ring was placed, the deed was done.
Away we went in chaise-and-four,
As fast as grinning boys could flog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

What loving tête-à-têtes to come!
But tête-à-têtes must still defer!
When Susan came to live with me,
Her mother came to live with her!
With sister Belle she couldn't part,
But all my ties had leave to jog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll-
A monkey too, what work he made!
The sister introduced a Beau-
My Susan brought a favorite maid,
She had a tabby of her own,-
A snappish mongrel christened Gog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The Monkey bit-the Parrot screamed,
All day the sister strummed and sung;
The petted maid was such a scold!
My Susan learned to use her tongue:
Her mother had such wretched health,
She sate and croaked like any frog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love,
I soon came down to simple "M!”
The very servants crossed my wish,
My Susan let me down to them.
The poker hardly seemed my own,
I might as well have been a log-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape!
Such coats and hats she never met!
My ways they were the oddest ways!
My friends were such a vulgar set!
Poor Tomkinson was snubbed and huffed,
She could not bear that Mister Blogg-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song-
The sister took a sister's part-
The Maid declared her Master wrong-

The Parrot learned to call me "Fool!"
My life was like a London fog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end-
I never had a decent coat-
I never had a coin to spend !
She forced me to resign my Club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list,
And when I tried to steal away.
I found my study full of whist!
Then, first to come and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug-
With Pussy in the elbow-chair
And Tray resposing on the rug?-
If I must totter down the hill,
'Tis safest done without a clog-
What d'ye think of that, my Cat?
What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

A PLAIN DIRECTION.

"Do you ever deviate? "John Bull.

IN London once I lost my way

In faring to and fro,

And asked a little ragged boy
The way that I should go:

He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

I boxed his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;

But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a famous town

That drove a famous trade,

Where Whittington walked up and found A fortune ready made.

The very streets are paved with gold;

But how shall I get there?

'Straight down the Crooked Lane,

And all round the Square."

I've read about a Fairy Land,

In some romantic tale,

Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive

And wicked Giants fail.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

My wish is great, my shoes are strong,

But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about some happy Isle, Where every man is free,

And none can lie in bonds for life
For want of L. S. D.

Oh! that's the land of Liberty!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

I've dreamt about some blessed spot, Beneath the blessed sky,

Where Bread and Justice never rise
Too dear for folks to buy.

It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

They say there is an ancient House,
As pure as it is old,

Where Members always speak their minds,
And votes are never sold.

I'm fond of all antiquities,

But how shall I get there?

"Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Royal Court
Maintained in noble state,
Where every able man and good
Is certain to be great!
I'm very fond of seeing sights,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

They say there is a Temple too,
Where Christians come to pray;
But canting knaves and hypocrites,
And bigots keep away.

Oh! that's the parish church for me!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

They say there is a Garden fair,
That's haunted by the dove,
Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse
The golden light of love-
The place must be a Paradise,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land
For public spirit known-
Whose Patriots love its interests
Much better than their own.
The land of Promise sure it is!
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate, A Mansion large and strong;

A view all over Kent and back,
And going for a song.

George Robbins knows the very spot,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.

I've heard there is a Company
All formal and enrolled,

Will take your smallest silver coin
And give it back in gold.
Of course the office-door is mobbed,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant Land,
Where omelettes grow on trees,
And roasted pigs run crying out,
"Come eat me, if you please."
My appetite is rather keen,
But how shall I get there?
"Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square."

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work-work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"O, Men, with Sisters dear!

O, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone,

I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own

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"Work-work-work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread-and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright, While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eydlids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still in a voice of dolorous pitch,

Would that its tone could reach the Rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

The following verse appears in the original MS. of the "Song of the Shirt:"

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Work, work, work,

Like the engine that works by steam!
A mere machine of iron and wood,
That toils for Mammon's sake, ́
Without a brain to powder and craze,
Or a heart to feel-and break!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"-Hamlet.

ONE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.—

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently, and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family-
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

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