The jury gave their verdict, that Though one stood out upon a whim, Was clearly gin-and-water. The moral of this mournful tale, To all is plain and clear, That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier; And he who scorns to "take the pledge," May be, in spite of fate, a stiff J. G. Same. TH CCCXXIV. WHITTLING. HE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, No little part that implement hath had, His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven, Make it, said I? — Ay, when he undertakes it, And when the thing is made, whether it be To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; J. Pierpont. CCCXXV. HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP. Y liege, I did deny no prisoners. MY But, I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, He was perfumed like a milliner; And 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held He And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He called them — untaught knaves, unmannerly, With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me; among the rest, demanded I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answered neglectingly, I know not what; He should, or he should not; for he made me mad, To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark !) And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was a great pity, so it was, This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, And, I beseech you, let not this report Shakspeare. COOXXVI. HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE. HARD by a poet's attic lived a chemist, Or alchemist, who had a mighty Faith in the elixir vitæ ; And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation; Stupidly hoping To find the art of changing metals, And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation. Our starving poet took occasion To seek this conjurer's abode ; Not with encomiastic ode, Of laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art The money paid, our bard was hurried Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter, "Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!" With grave and solemn air the poet Let this plain truth those ingrates strike, Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE, SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!" Horace Smith. CCCXXVII. THE THREE BLACK CROWS. TWO honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,. About the crows!" "I don't know what it is," Replied his friend. "No? I'm surprised at that Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." 66 66 I had it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell?" - relating the affair But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three." Whip to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir," and so forth Though in regard to number not exact; It was not two black crows; 't was only one; The truth of that you may depend upon, The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?". "Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." |