BROTHER JONATHAN AND TAXES. 257

BROTHER JONATHAN AND TAXES.

I GUESS I mean to tax myself,
In every jot and tittle,

Of all I eat and drink and wear,
And all I chew and whittle;
In flour and sperrits, ale and wine,
In oils and in tobackers;

In papers, gas, salt, soap, and skins,
And meal and malt and crackers.
Yankee Doodle, etc.

The leather that we walk upon,
The upper and the under, -
The electric fluid in the wires,

(Guess I can't catch the thunder ;)
Each passenger that takes the cars,
Each 'bus that runs on tramrods,
Advertisements and steamboats too,
And guns, locks, stocks, and ramrods.
Yankee Doodle, etc.

There's not a billiard-ball shall spin,
But into Guv'ment's pockets;
No draughts or pill cure human ill,
Without the Guv'ment dockets;
All carriages taxed carts shall be;
Watches go tick for taxes;

And messages shall pay, both eends,

Who answers and who axes.

Yankee Doodle, etc.

No banker shall shinplasters make,
No pedler cheat the farmers,
No liquor-store shall sell its drams,
No theatres its dramers;

No rider spring round the circus-ring,
No bowling-alley roll up,

But shall to Guv’ment needs help bring
The totle of the whole up.

Yankee Doodle, etc.

London Punch.

A LITTLE JEU D'ESPRIT :

SHOWING HOW AUGUST BECAME JULY AND MARCH, AND A LITTLE MAN GREW TO A GREAT HEIGHT.

For the snobbish individual,
To whom it don't apply,
Since the falsehoods of Chicago
Should be surely named July,
Should be surely named July.

The elections of November

Will take out all his starch;

Then all our friends, and he himself,

Will wish to make him March,

Will wish to make him March.

For his vile and nasty politics,
Let him take his carcass hence;
He is, indeed, a little man,

Yet the height of Impudence,

Yet the height of Impudence.

Evening Post.

A HAIR-DRESSER'S STORY.

259

A HAIR-DRESSER'S STORY.

The story runs, that to a certain town
Of much renown

For teas æsthetic, and for streets that wind,
With his fair wife, a whilom General came,
Well known to fame,

Whose tactics were of the defensive sort,
Whose masterly retreats and memory short
Had proved him fitted for a sphere confined.

At least the people thought him not designed,
In spite of his refined

And gentlemanly manners, for the place
Of President. They voted that too large
For little George:

Thus snubbed, disgusted he has left his home
To join his sympathizing friends at Rome,
In papal patriarchism finding his solace.

Nor shall we care again to see his face
Who in disgrace-

ful forced inaction kept an army tried,
And trained to war. Whose molc-like strategy
And sullen vanity,

Whose organizing skill and nice precision,

Whose imperturbable, slow indecision,

Deceived the trust that in him most relied.

But to my story. In this city, where
The very air

Dampens your soul with intellectual dew,
The General's friends, with just appreciation,
Did an "ovation

Of costly banquet and "reception " offer,
For his delight; and frowned down any scoffer
Who thought at his campaigns to glance askew.

For this reunion, ·

where professors drew

Out ladies blue,

A hair-dresser was sent for, to arrange
The lady's tresses in the newest fashion,
(Braids à discrétion)

Regardless of expense, that should amaze
The souls of all men privileged to gaze
Upon that head of complications strange.

And while his well-trained fingers swiftly range
And deftly change

From rats to mice, from curl to smoothest roll,
Before a glass that in a corner stood,
In thoughtful mood,

The General his razor did prepare,

And with a cautious, meditative care

His coat and waistcoat from his trunk unfold.

And then the lady, thoughtful of her spouse,
Did him arouse

In gentle accents: "General, are you ready?
(She had her back turned to him that the light
Might fall aright.)

The General, waking from a reverie,

(In Spain he often won a victory,)

Answered her, "No," in tone composed and steady.

But soon again: "Now, General are you ready?'
Said his good lady,

With slight impatience. "It is nearly time
That we were off. You know of all the guests
We should be first;

And I am much afraid you will be late.”
He plainly saw that she would be irate,
Yet answered "No," with constancy sublime.

This answer did not with her humor chime:
The clock struck nine.

SHERMAN'S MARCII.

She scarcely her impatience could control.
At last, her head completed, round she turned,
With eyes that burned,

261

Upon her lord: "Why, are you not yet ready?
Oh, dear! You know, George, you are never ready!'
Broke in sad truth from that long wearied soul.

A. M. W.

99

SHERMAN'S MARCH.

BY A SOLDIER.

THEIR lips are still as the lips of the dead,
The gaze of their eyes is straight ahead;
The tramp, tramp, tramp of ten thousand feet
Keep time to that muffled, monotonous beat,
Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!

Ten thousand more! and still they come
To fight a battle for Christendom!

With cannon and caissons, and flags unfurled,
The foremost men in all the world!

Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!

The foe is intrenched on the frowning hill,
A natural fortress, strengthened by skill;
But vain are the walls to those who face
The champions of the human race!

66

Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!

By regiment! Forward into line!" Then sabres and guns and bayonets shine. ye who feel your fate at last

Oh

Repeat the old prayer as your hearts beat fast

Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!