Oh, say, old schleeby head!

(Now I vas gitting mad

I'll holler now und I don't care
Uf I vake up her dad!)

I say, you schleeby, vake!

Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!

Oh cracious! do vake ubl

Dot girl she schleebed-dot rain it rained
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool,
Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off
So vet und shlobby like a mool!

THE DEATH OF THE REVELLER-W. A. EATON

The lights were gleaming and the feast was spread,
And at the table sat the boisterous guests,
Shouting and singing snatches of coarse songs.
The giver of the feast was an old man,

Grown old in sin, and hardened more and more,
Till age found him, 'mid the boisterous crew,
A guide and prompter into any path
That led away from virtue or from truth.
His snow-white hair upon his shoulders fell
In twining ringlets; and his silver beard,
Grizzled with age, clung to his hollow cheeks;
And on his brow the plough of time had made
Deep furrows; and his eyes were growing dim.
But still his hollow voice rang on the night,
And his eye glistened at the obscene jests
Of his companions, and his skinny hands
Beat on each other with a hollow sound
At the rude singing of the rabble crew.
It was an awful sight to see him there,
So old and withered, yet so wildly gay;
So like a patriarch, yet so like a fiend.
The ruddy wine was poured incessantly;
And as the brimming goblets passed along,
The old man chuckled, and his eyes grew bright.
He seized a flagon in his trembling hands,
And held it to his lips, and shrieked aloud,
The while it ran like blood upon his beard,
And trickled to the floor. At each fresh draught

New vigor seemed to nerve his aged limbs,
And he sat more erect, and lifted up

His trembling voice and sang an ancient song.
The vaulted roof re-echoed with the shouts
Of the mad revellers when the song was o'er,
And eagerly they called out, "Sing again!"
The old man took another draught of wine,
And, smiling, once again essayed to sing.
It was a love-song,-a sweet, simple thing,-
A song he oft had sung in his fresh youth,
When his young heart was gay as any bird's,
And life was like a glorious dream of flowers.
His trembling voice grew stronger as he sang,
And his hard features softened, and a smile
Played o'er his face, and in his glistening eye
A tear-drop stood. His inmost soul was stirred
With thoughts of other days, and his harsh voice
Grew soft as woman's, and his radiant face
Beamed with the light of tender memories.
But suddenly his cheek turned deadly pale,
And he fell backward, with his long lean hand
Pressed to his side, as if with sudden pain.
The guests, alarmed, ran quickly to his aid,
And raised him up, and pressed a brimming cup
Against his lips. But with a gesture he
Put it away, and lifting up his head,
Spake in a solemn voice, unlike his own,
While the dazed revellers stood silent by:
"Nay, tempt me not again!

I will not touch the wine-cup in this hour-
Too often have I felt its deadly power;
And I would clear my brain

In these last trembling moments, for I feel
Death's icy hand across my temples steal.
"Nay, do not smile at me,

And mock me with false hope of many days;
My time has come: this is death's filmy haze
That will not let me see

Your faces round me, though the lamps are bright
And the wine glitters in the sparkling light.

"To die in such a place!

I who once knelt beside my mother's knee
To say my evening prayer. And must it be
That I may ne'er retrace

The pathway of my life, lest haply I

Might do one deed of good before I die?

And must I die to-night,

With the still echoing songs to mar my peace;
To bid all thoughts of heavenly subjects cease?
Ere the sun's golden light

Streams through the windows of this awful place, Death will have stamped his impress on my face. "Oh, listen to my voice,

Ye, who have often shouted with delight
At my rude jesting, listen now to-night.
Ye, who in youth rejoice,

Be warned by me, and stay while yet 'tis time,
Ere your young souls get hardened unto crime.
"Oh, shun the wine-cup now!—
Now, while the light of youth is in your eye;
While hope weaves golden colors in your sky;
Ere yet upon your brow

The frosts of winter fall, and Time's rough share
Plow, deep and lasting, bitter furrows there.
"I have been wont to sneer

At holy themes, and laugh at those who trod
The path of virtue and looked up to God
With holy, reverent fear.

But now I would give worlds if I could pray
The prayer I would repeat at close of day.
"Raise my head higher now-

Open the windows, let me have more air,
I cannot breathe!-why do you wildly stare?
This cold sweat on my brow

Is death, I know. I faint-I reel-I fall!

Mind my last words. Ha! may God save you all ♪

His head fell back; and they who watched him die

Stood gazing at each other for awhile,

And then with soft, slow steps they one by one
Crept silently away. The banquet-hall

Is silent and deserted, and the walls
No longer echo to the revellers' mirth.
There is a solemn stillness in the place
As if the ghosts of the departed hours

Had found a refuge there. The owlet screams
About the windows; and the moonlight falls
Upon the empty board: and all is still.

THE VICTORY OF PERRY.-ALICE CARY.
SEPTEMBER 10, 1813.

Lift up the years! lift up the years

Whose shadows around us spread;
Let us tribute pay to the brave to-day
Who are half a century dead.

Oh, not with tears-no, not with tears,
The grateful nation comes,

But with flags out-thrown, and bugles blown,
And the martial roll of drums!

Beat up, beat up! till memory glows

And sets our hearts aflame!

Ah! they did well in the fight who fell,
And we leave them to their fame;

Their fame, that larger, grander grows
As time runs into the past,

For the Erie-waves chant over their graves,
And shall, while the world shall last.

O beautiful cities of the Lake,

As ye sit by your peaceful shore,
Make glad and sing till the echoes ring,
For our brave young Commodore!

He knew your stormy oaks to take
And their ribs into ships contrive,
And to set them so fine in battle line,
With their timbers yet alive.*
We see our squadron lie in the Bay
Where it lay so long ago,

And hear the cry from the mast-head high,
Three times and three, "Sail ho!"

Through half a century to-day
We hear the signal of fight-

"Get under way! Get under way!

The enemy is in sight!"

Our hearts leap up-our pulses thrill,

As the boatswains' pipes of joy

So loudly play o'er the dash o' the spray,

"All hands up anchor ahoy!"

* Perry, it will be remembered, cut down the trees, built and launched the ships of his fleet, all within three months.

Now all is still, aye, deathly still;

The enemy's guns are in view!
"To the royal fore!" cries the Commodore,
And up run the lilies and blue.*

And hark to the cry, the great glad cry,-
All a-tremble the squadron stands,—
From lip to lip, "Don't give up the ship!"
And then "To quarters, all hands !”

An hour, an awful hour drags by—
There's a shot from the enemy's gun!
"More sail! More sail! Let the canister hail !"
Cries Perry, and forward, as one,

Caledonia, Lawrence, and Scorpion, all

Bear down and stand fast, till the flood

Away from their track sends the scared billows back
With their faces bedabbled in blood.

The Queen† and her allies their broadsides let fall—
Oh, the Lawrence is riddled with storm!
Where is Perry? afloat! he is safe in his boat,
And his battle-flag up in his arms!

The bullets they hiss and the Englishmen shout-
Oh, the Lawrence is sinking, a wreck!

But with flag yet a-swing like a great bloody wing
Perry treads the Niagara's deck!

With a wave of his hand he has wheeled her about--
Oh, the nation is holding its breath!

Head foremost he goes in the midst of his foes
And breaks them and rakes them to death!

And lo, the enemy, after the fray,

On the deck that his dead have lined,

With his sword-hilt before to our Commodore,
And his war-dogs in leash behind!

And well the nation does well to-day,

Setting her bugles to blow,

And her drums to beat for the glorious fleet

That humbled her haughty foe.

The famous fighting flag was inscribed with the immortal words of the dying Lawrence, in large white letters on a blue ground, legible throughout the quadron.

+ QUEEN CHARLOTTE of the British line.