Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din !

The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!

How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!

The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,

Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low,

You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper,he's one whom his Maker yet

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there for honest poverty

Wha hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by;

We dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,

A beauty fading like the April flowers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
An honor that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name,
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE DIRGE.

WHAT is the existence of man's life
But open war, or slumbered strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace,
Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;

And each loud passion of the mind

Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which bears his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower which buds and grows
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep;
Then shrinks into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enrolled.

It is a dream whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandering as his fancies are ;
Till in the mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days;
The shepherds heard it overhead,
The joyful angels raised it then :
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men!

My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,

And wish you health and love and mirth,
As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.

As fits the holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol still, Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.