But all of them are bad enough To make a body curse. You're riding out some pleasant day, It's hard to meet such pressing friends It's very hard to lose your cash, And so you take your wallet out, Perhaps you're going out to dine,— He tells you of his starving wife, All clamorous for bread, And so you kindly help to put You're sitting on your window seat You hear a sound that seems to wear As if a broken fife should strive And nearer, nearer still, the tide There's something like a human voice, And something like a drum; You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. Poor "home, sweet home," should seem to be Your "auld acquaintance," all at once, Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, You think they are crusaders, sent To crack the voice of Melody, And break the legs of Time. But hark! the air again is still, And silence, like a poultice, comes It cannot be,-it is,—it is,- No! Pay the dentist when he leaves And pay the owner of the bear, That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw; But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And if you are a slender man, Or, if you cannot make a speech, Go very quietly and drop A button in the hat! A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. THOU happy, happy elf! THOS. HOOD. (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin- With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air- (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Toss the light ball-bestride the stick (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) PROVINCIAL SPEECH. O. W. HOLMES. SOME words on LANGUAGE may be well applied, The native freedom of the Saxon lips; See the brown peasant of the plastic South, Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young, But school and college often try in vain To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain; A few brief stanzas may be well employed Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The clownish voice that utters road for road; Once more; speak clearly, if you speak at all; Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, Try over hard to roll the British R; Do put your accents in the proper spot; Don't, let me beg you,--don't say "How?" for "What?" And, when you stick on conversation's burs, Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. From "Urania.” A RHYMED LESSON. 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. O. W. HOLMES. I leave the broadcloth,—coats and all the rest,— 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; |