And venever he flung his stick or his stone,
He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."
"Let me alone, for I loves to shy
These bits of things at the passers-by;
Let me alone, for I've got your tin,
And lots of other traps snugly in;
Let me alone-I am rigging a boat
To grab votever you've got afloat;
In a veek or so I expects to come
And turn you out of your 'ouse and❜ome;
I'm a quiet Old Cove," says he, with a groan;
"All I axes is, Let me alone."
Just then came along, on the self-same vay,
Another Old Cove, and began for to say—
"Let you alone! That's comin' it strong!
You've ben let alone-a darned site too long!
Of all the sarce that ever I heerd!
Put down that stick! (You may well look skeered.)
Let go that stone! If you once show fight,
I'll knock you higher than any kite.
You must have a lesson to stop your tricks,
And cure you of shying them stones and sticks;
And I'll have my hardware back, and my cash,
And knock your scow into tarnal smash;
And if ever I catches you round my ranch,
I'll string you up to the nearest branch.
The best you can do is to go to bed,
And keep a decent tongue in your head;
For I reckon, before you and I are done,
You'll wish you had let honest folks alone."
The Old Cove stopped, and t'other old Cove,
He sot quite still in his cypress grove,
And he looked at his stick, revolvin' slow,
Vether were safe to shy it, or no;
And he grumbled on, in an injured tone,
"All that I axed vos, Let me alone."
I DON'T appwove this hawid waw ;
Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;
And guns and dwums are such a baw,-
Why don't the pawties compwamise?
Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;
But why must all the vulgah cwowd
Pawsist in spawting unifawms,
In cullahs so extwemely loud?
And then the ladies-pwecious deahs!—
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;
Bai Jove! I weally have my feahs
They wathah like the hawid waw !
To heah the chawming cweatures talk,
Like patwons of the bloody wing,
Of waw and all its dawty wawk,—
It doesn't seem a pwappah thing!
I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night,
To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz,
And found her making-cwushing sight!—
The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce, I wose and sought the daw,
With fewy flashing from my eyes!
I can't appwove this hawid waw ;-
Why don't the pawties compwamise?
WHEN Dermot O'Dowd courted Molly M'Can,
They were sweet as the honey and soft as the down,
But when they were wed they began to find out
That Dermot could storm and that Molly could frown;
They would neither give in-so the neighbors gave out-
Both were hot, till a coldness came over the two,
And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther,
Stamp holes in the flure, and cry out "wirrasthru!
Oh murther! I'm married,
I wish I had tarried;
I'm sleepless and speechless-no word can I say.
My bed is no use,
I'll give back to the goose
The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day."
"Ah!" says Molly, you once used to call me a bird.” "Faix, you're ready enough still to fly out," says he. "You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies, And my lips like the rose-now no longer like me.” Says Dermot, "your eyes are as bright as the morn, But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud, If your lip is a rose-sure your tongue is a thorn
That strikes in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd."
Says Molly, "you once said my voice was a thrush,
But now it's a rusty ould hinge with a creak;"
Says Dermot, "you called me a duck when I coorted,
But now I'm a goose every day in the week.
But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock,
From the first 'twas ordained so by Nature, I fear,
Ould Adam himself was the first o' the flock,
And Eve, with her apple-sauce, cooked him, my dear."
From little matters let us pass to less,
And lightly touch the mysteries of dress;
The outward forms the inner man reveal,-
We guess the pulp before we cut the peel.
I leave the broadcloth, coats and all the rest,
The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys" vest,”
The things named "pants" in certain documents,
A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents ;"
One single precept might the whole condense:
Be sure your tailor is a man of sense;
But add a little care, a decent pride,
And always err upon the sober side.
Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light,
And least of all the pair that once was white;
Let the dead party where you told your loves
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves;
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids,
But be a parent,-don't neglect your kids.
Have a good hat; the secret of your looks
Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks;
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat,
But man and nature scorn the shocking hat.
Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes?
Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades,
Mount the new castor,-ice itself will melt;
Boots, gloves may fail; the hat is always felt!
Our freeborn race, averse to every check,
Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its neck;
From the green prairie to the sea-girt town,
The whole wide nation turns its collars down.
The stately neck is manhood's manliest part;
It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart;
With short, curled ringlets close around it spread,
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head!
Thine, fair Erectheus of Minerva's wall;
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall,
Smooth as the pillar, flashing in the sun
That filled the arena where thy wreaths were won-
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil!
I spare the contrast; it were only kind
To be a little, nay, intensely blind;
Choose for yourself; I know it cuts your ear;
I know the points will sometimes interfere;
I know that often, like the filial John,
Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on,
You show your features to the astonished town
With one side standing and the other down:-
But, O my friend! my favorite fellow-man!
If Nature made you on her modern plan,
Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare,-
The fruit of Eden ripening in the air,—
With that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin,
Wear standing collars, were they made of tin!
And have a neck-cloth,-by the throat of Jove!
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove!
THE FRENCHMAN AND THE PIGS.
A FRENCHMAN in a luckless hour,
Sought shelter from a sudden shower,
Beneath the gateway, where he viewed
A sow, with all her motley brood
Of little pigs. "Aha!" quoth he;
"A colloquer diversité !
Beaucoup I do admire dese little ting,
Dey do de tought of eating bring.
En verité, as I'm von sinner,
"Twould make von most magnifique dinner!
But den, de English law so strick
De people hang for such a trick;
And dough de hunger be bad ting,
It's better dat, dan take von swing.
But no one see, and if I 'scape
And no fear come to my neck cape,
O dear, 'twould be von charmant treat,
Like gourmand, roassy pig to eat.”
The point thus argued, one he seized
And placed beneath his coat, well pleased.
But piggy squeaked so long and loud,
As soon alarmed a neighboring crowd.
Swift off he ran, but closely followed
The hustling mob, which loudly halloed.
In vain, alas! was all confession,
The pig was found in his possession.
Examined straight, and guilty found
The culprit humbly bowed around
And said, "Attendez-vous
To vot I now parlez to you.
Dis mamma pig, and children six,
Me own did my attention fix,
So to dis little pig I say,
'Come live vid me von month, I pray,'
Ven English me did tink he speak,
For he cried out, "Aveek! Aveek!"
'O den,' say I, 'de time's but small-
I take you for a veek-dat's all.'"
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