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Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack,
I'm seeking for rest, at each place,
Only my load I bear on my fuce.
The girls they all blush like a rose; “I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why? “Because you have got such a nose.”
Oh, dear! lack-a-daisy me! Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose, They all like the man, but they say,—“Blow his nose !" Like a large joint of meat, before a small fire,
They say that my proboscis hangs;
And in length, it a pump-handle bangs.
Said, with a grin on his face, t'other night,
Oh, dear! lack-a-daisy me!
THE HONEST DEACON.
AN OLD STORY IN RHYME.
And, though a Christian good,
For drink he often would.
He would at dinner-time
In good Madeira wine.
The deacon had his pew;
He had a seat there too.
The parson said he'd talk
Of sins within tbeir flock.
He warned them that they must not flinch
If he should be severe.
So all turned out to hear.
The deacon, some behind,
Indulging in his wine.
He stiffly tottered on;
The sermon had begun.
And of the wrath to flee;
“ The drunkard—where is he?”
And answered like a man,Though with a hiccup in his voice,
“Here, parson,-hic-'ere I am." Of course the consternation
Was great on every side;
Would thus aptly have replied ?
With his remarks kept on,
The deacon then sat down.
With no more welcome sound,"Where is the wicked hypocrite ?"
This made them all turn round. Some looked at this one, some at that,
As if they would inquire
His eyes were on the squire.
Turned round and spoke to Lee:
THE NEW BIRTH.-HERMAN MERIVALR.
God spake in a voice of thunder,
Of old from Sinai's hill;
Thrill the believer still;
With the eye of faith alone,
The great Creator's throne. He sees-in the day of danger
The column of cloud that led
His Israel whom he fed;
Astray in a twilight land,
By the one unerring hand.
The pillar of fire that shone
To light God's children on;
When the eye of sense grows dim,
To all who trust in Him.
He reads the mightier still,
By the law of His royal will; And while in its course diurnal
It murmurs, or sings, or raves,
In the language of the waves.
The throbs of a life their own,
Whisper their undertone.
He hears the secret fall,
In the leaves that blow and perish
In the space of a single hour, As the loves that most we cherish
Die like the frailest flower,--
Withers or e'er they bloom,
Which breathes from the open tomb
To the stem whence Autumn's fell, And the heat of Summer burning,
To change at the Winter's spell, The year that again repasses,
The grain that again revives,
That bar and bound our lives.
To my vision more and more,
When the faint eye glazes o'er;
Once kissed by the fighting breath, And the light beyond the river
Shine full in the face of death. Strong-set in a strong affection,
We look to the golden prime, When a mightier resurrection
Shall burst on the doubts of time; And the thoughts of all the sages,
Like the waves of the fretful main, At the base of the Rock of Ages
Shall foam and fume in vain.
THE POTATO. --THOMAS MOORE.
I'm a careless potato, and care not a pin
How into existence I came; If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in,
To me 'tis exactly the same. The bean and the pea may more loftily tower,
But I care not a button for them, Defiance I nod with ny beautiful flower
When the earth is hoed up to my stem.
WHAT A LITTLE BOY THINKS ABOUT THINGS.
JOHN PAUL I am a little boy about so many years old; I don't know whether l'ın a good little boy, but I'm afraid not, for I sometimes do wicked things, and once I cut sister's kitten's tail off with the chopping knife, and told her a big dog came along and bit it off and swallowed it down before kitty could Bay Jack Robinson, and sister said she was sorry, and it must have been a very naughty dog, but mother did not believe me and said she was afraid I had told a lie, and I'm afraid I had.
So then she asked me if I knew where liars went to and I said yes,—they went to New York and wrote for the newspapers; she said no-but to a lake of fire and brimstone, and she asked me if I would like to go there, and I said no, for I didn't think there would be much skating or sliding on that lake, and the boys couldn't snowball either, on shore, and she said it was more than that, just as though that wasn't bad enough, for I don't think they can play base-ball nuther.
Then she asked me if I wouldn't like to be a nangel and have a harp, and I said no, I'd rather be a stage driver and have a big drum, for I couldn't play on t’other thing. So I shouldn't like to be a nangel, for their wings must be in the way when they go swimming, and play tag, and leap frog, and besides it must be hard to fly when one ain't accustomed to it. But it would be jolly to be a stage driver and have a great long whip and touch up the leaders, and say “ g’lang there, what are ye doin' on!" I should like that much better'n flyin'; and then mother said there was a dreadful stage of sin, and Bob hollered and said that he "guessed I was on it," and then she whipped us and sent us to bed without any supper,—but I didn't care for any supper, for they hadn't nothin' but bread and butter and tea,-and Bob and I got up and he lifted me in at the pantry window, and we got a mince-pie and a whole hat-full of doughnuts, and they thought it was the cook that stole 'em, and sent her away the next day, and Bob said he was giad of it, for she didn't make good pies, and the doughnuts wasn't fried enough.