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Now I was green, and she was green,

As a summer's squash might be ;
And we loved as warmly as other folks, –

I and my Deborah Lee, —
With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom

Coveted her and me.

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But somehow it happened a long time ago,
In the aguish West countree,

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. That a chill March morning gave the shakes

FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS." To my beautiful Deborah Lee ;

Guvener B. is a sensible man; And the grim steam-doctor (drat him !) came,

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; And bore her away from me, –

He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, The doctor and death, old partners they,

An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; — In the aguish countree.

But John P.

Robinson he The angels wanted her in heaven

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess,

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? In the aguish West countree,

We can't never choose him o' course, — thet's That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and .

flat; death,

Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you ?) Took off my Deborah Lee –

An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; My beautiful Deborah Lee —

Fer John P. From the warm sunshine and the opening flower,

Robinson he And bore her away from me.

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. Our love was as strong as a six-horse team,

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : Or the love of folks older than we,

He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf, Or possibly wiser than we;

But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,

He's ben true to one party, - an' thet is himWas rather too many for me;

self ;He closed the peepers and silenced the breath

So John P. Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee,

Robinson he And her form lies cold in the prairie mould,

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Silent and cold, -ah me!

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war ;* The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,

He don't vally principle more 'n an old cud; And the prairie's sweet wild flowers

Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, In their odorous beauty around it wave

But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood ? Through all the sunny hours, —

So John P. The still, bright summer hours ;

Robinson he And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass,

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass, — We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, She wakes no more to me;

With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, Ah, nevermore to me!

We kind o’ thought Christ went agin war an' Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers

pillage, spring,

An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a She wakes no more to me.


But John P. Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night,

Robinson he A vision of beauty I see

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. Gliding soft to my bedside, ---a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee, —

Written at the time of the Mexican war, which was strongly

opposed by the AntiSlavery party as being unnecessary and My bride that was to be ;


The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our coun-

try; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per con

An' John P.

Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ;
Sezthey're nothin'on airth but jest fee, faw,

fum : And thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half ov it ign’ance, an' t'other half rum ;

But John P.

Robinson he
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so

must we.

THE NIGHT. On fair augusta's towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then reassumed its still array ; When, as night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power, That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light. From Henry's Chapel, Rufus' Hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought who gazed around Amid a silence so profound

It made the senses thrill, That 't was no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead,

All was so hushed and still.

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As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flashed upon her eyes, -
So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames ;
For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke, -

“The playhouse is in flames !” And, lo ! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane ;
Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguined drain ;
Meux's new Brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's Chapel, and the height

Where Patent Shot they sell ;
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket-Porters' House of Call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel.
Nor these alone, but far and wide,
Across red Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrowed lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.



“Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase."- DON QUIXOTE.

To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black.

Prince's armor, borrowed from the Tower.
REST there awhile, my bearded lance,
While from green curtain I advance
To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,
And tell the town what sad mischance

Did Drury Lane befall.

Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls !
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo ! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls ! ,
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When, lo ! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual a moving head appeared,

And Eagle firemen knew
'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered,

The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, “A Muggins ! to the rescue, ho !"

And poured the hissing tide : Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again,

He tottered, sunk, and died !

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,

As from a lofty altar rise,
It seemed that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast, stupendous sacrifice !
The summoned firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all :
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied ;
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced ; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.
The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Showed foreman of the British gang, -
His name was Higginbottom. Now
'T is meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view :
The Hand-in-Hand the race began,
Then came the Phenix and the Sun,
The Exchange, where old insurers run,

The Eagle, where the new ;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley in the Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, .

Crump from St. Giles's Pound : Whitford and Mitford joined the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain

Before the plug was found.
Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,
But ah! no trophy could they reap,
For both were in the Donjon Keep

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound !
E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed ;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo “ Heads below ! "

Nor notice give at all.
The firemen terrified are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof should fall,

Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succor one they loved so well ?
Yes, Higgin bottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)

His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drench,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite,

He sunk to rise no more.
Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved :
“Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps !
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps !
Why are you in such doleful dumps ?
A fireman, and afraid of bumps! -
What are they feared on? fools ! 'od rot'em !”
Were the last words of Higginbottom.


Rejected Addresses.



Interior of a Theatre described. - Pit gradually fills. - The Check

taker. - Pit full. - The Orchestra tuned. - One fiddle rather dilatory. - Is reproved - and repents. - Evolutions of a Play-bill. - Its final Settlement on the Spikes. - The Gods taken to task --and why. - Motley Group of Play-goers. - Holywell Street, St. Pancras. - Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice-not in London-- and why. - Episode of the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half past five to six, | Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,

Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art, Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Start into light, and make the lighter start; Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
To see red Phæbus through the gallery-pane From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane ; Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
While gradual parties fill our widened pit, The lottery-cormorant, the auction-shark,
And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit. The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ;

Boys who long linger at the gallery door,
At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, / With pence twice five, – they want but twopence
Distant or near, they settle where they please ;

more; But when the multitude contracts the span,

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can. And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.

Now the full benches to late-comers doom
No room for standing, miscalled standing room.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,

But talk their minds, - we wish they'd mind Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

their talk ; And bawling “Pitfull !" gives the check he takes; |

Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live,-Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give ; Contending crowders shout the frequent damn, Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary, . And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary ;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, See to their desks Apollo's sons repair, — Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait; Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair! Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse In unison their various tones to tune, .

| With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Murmurs the hautboy, growls the hoarse bassoon; | In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute, Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow, Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute, For scowling Fortune seemed to threaten woe. Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp, Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling John Richard William Alexander Dwyer harp;

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; Till, like great Jove, the leader, figuring in,

But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Attunes to order the chaotic din.

Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes. Now all seems hushed, - but, no, one fiddle will | Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still.

Up as a corn-cutter, ~a safe employ ; Foiled in his crash, the leader of the clan

In Holy-well Street, St. Pancras, he was bred Reproves with frowns the dilatory man;

(At number twenty-seven, it is said), Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,

Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head ; Nods a new signal, and away they go.

He would have bound him to some shop in town, Perchance, while pitand gallery cry “Hats off!” |

But with a premium he could not come down. And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,

Pat was the urchin's name, -- a red-haired youth, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love

Fonder of purl and skittle grounds than truth. Drops, reft of pin, her play-bill from above : Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,

Silence, ye gods ! to keep your tongues in awe, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw. But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers ;

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat: Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

Down from the gallery the beaver flew, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl ;

And spurned the one to settle in the two. Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes,

ikes, How shall he act ? Pay at the gallery-door And, from mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

KES | Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ! Say, why these Babelstrains from Babeltongues? |

Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, Who's that calls - Silence !" with such leathern

And gain his hat again at half past eight ? lungs ?

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, He who, in quest of quiet, “Silence !" hoots,

John Mullens whispers, "Take my handkerchier." Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

“Thank you," cries Pat; “but one won't make

a line." What various swainsourmotley walls contain!- "Take mine," cried Wilson ; and cried Stokes, Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane; “Take mine.”

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,

Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew, ! Here it comes sparkling,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue, And there it lies darkling ;
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

Now smoking and frothing
George Green below, with palpitating hand,

Its tumult and wrath in, Loops the last kerchief to the beaver's band, –

Till in this rapid race Upsoars the prize! The youth with joy unfeigned

On which it is bent, Regained the felt, and felt what he regained ;

It reaches the place While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat

Of its steep descent. Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.


The cataract strong
Then plunges along,

Striking and raging

As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among ;

Rising and leaping,
“ How does the water

Sinking and creeping,
Come down at Lodore ?"

Swelling and sweeping,
My little boy asked me

Showering and springing,
Thus, once on a time;

Flying and flinging,
And moreover he tasked me

Writhing and ringing,
To tell him in rhyme.

Eddying and whisking,
Anon at the word,

Spouting and frisking,
There first came one daughter,

Turning and twisting,
And then came another,

Around and around
To second and third

With endless rebound :
The request of their brother,

Smiting and fighting,
And to hear how the water

A sight to delight in ;
Comes down at Lodore,

Confounding, astounding,
With its rush and its roar,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.
As many a time
They had seen it before.

Collecting, projecting,
So I told them in rhyme,

Receding and speeding,
For of rhymes I had store ;

And shocking and rocking,
And ’t was in my vocation

And darting and parting,
For their recreation

And threading and spreading,
That so I should sing ;

And whizzing and hissing,
Because I was Laureate

And dripping and skipping,
To them and the King.

And hitting and splitting,

And shining and twining,
From its sources which well

And rattling and battling,
In the tarn on the fell;

And shaking and quaking,
From its fountains

And pouring and roaring,
In the mountains,

And waving and raving,
Its rills and its gills;

And tossing and crossing,
Through moss and through brake,

And flowing and going,
It runs and it creeps

And running and stunning,
For a while, till it sleeps

And foaming and roaming,
In its own little lake.

And dinning and spinning,
And thence at departing,

And dropping and hopping,
Awakening and starting,

And working and jerking,
It runs through the reeds,

And guggling and struggling,
And away it proceeds,

And heaving and cleaving,
Through meadow and glade,

And moaning and groaning;
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,

And glittering and frittering,
Among crags in its flurry,

And gathering and feathering,

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