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النشر الإلكتروني

A WHITE-PINE BALLAD.

RECENTLY with Samuel Johnson this occasion I

improved,

Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved;

But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine,

Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.

Johnson's folly-to be candid-was a wild desire to

treat

Every able male white citizen he met upon the

street;

And there being several thousand-but this subject why pursue?

'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.

No not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow,

But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low.

'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of senti

ment,

That left the noble Perkins in a week without a

cent.

"Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire,

But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire;

And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced,

And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced.

But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry

The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace

Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious

trace.

Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was

found

With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground;

And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand and smiled

On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.

MORAL.

Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign,

In this tale of Milton Perkins,-late an owner in White Pine,

You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same;

And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.

WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO

LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.

WONDERING maiden, so puzzled and fair,
Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?
"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"—
Only the better to see with, my child!
Only the better and clearer to view

Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue.

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms
Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms,
Swaying so wickedly?—are they misplaced,
Clasping or shielding some delicate waist:
Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear
Only the better protect you, my dear!

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street,
Why do I press your small hand when we meet?
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek,
Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?
Why, well you see-if the truth must appear-

I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!

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