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.

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.

saint;

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, —

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,

Helter-skelter,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Hurry-skurry.
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.

JAMES SMITH.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,

Striking and raging
THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among ;
DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY.

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,