If I did not take care, Would come in for a share; I do therefore enjoin, 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? Whom should I marry?- should it be 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, To take the treasure, or forego it? But what if, seemingly afraid But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? "Take her!" Quoth Echo (sotto voce), · JOHN G. SAXE. PHILOSOPHY OF HUDIBRAS. BESIDE, he was a shrewd philosopher, For the other, as great clerks have done. SAMUEL BUTLER. LOGIC OF HUDIBRAS. He was in logic a great critic, A hair 'twixt south and southwest side; A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, All this by syllogism true, In mood and figure he would do. SAMUEL BUTLER. A REMINISCENCE OF "THE LATE ONPLEASANTNESS.” As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp, "Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues," A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed; And venever he flung his stick or his stone, He'd set up a song of "Let me alone." 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? When these young hands first closed upon a goose; From some remoter tailor of our race. When none was near, and I did deal with it, 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, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, The knaves set off on the same day, The other limped, as if he had been shot. 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, Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas; "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. What power hath worked a wonder for your toes 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, A fellow in a market-town, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard, - With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling, in heart and soul content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze ; 'T was a vile razor! - then the rest he tried, – All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore; Sirrah! I tell you you 're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave!" "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave.” "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile, "to sell." DR. WOLCOTT (PETER PINDAR). THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. A MAN in many a country town we know, With all the love and kindness of a brother; Lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne; Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and Or draw a tooth out of your head, Or chatter scandal by your bed, Or tell a twister. Of occupations these were quantum suff., - and All the old women called him "a fine man!' "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. j Benjamin Bolus, though in traile, You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Which oftentimes will genius flatter, Read works of fancy, it is said, And cultivated the belles-lettres, |