One day from his accustom'd round I miss'd him
And went to seek in what were his delights-
I found him eating-what?-to catch his failing breath
Why opium forsooth, and looking grim as death.

Some not content with Alabama Row
Get into "state of sweet duplicity”—*
That is, get wives "sae trig frae tap to toe"
And get of ills a multiplicity-

The wives go fast-the gouty men so slow
It gives disparity too much publicity—
These men who think themselves such strapping fellows
To me look'd laughable-much like Othellos.

Had I enough of time or letter paper

I could extend far more these trifling sketches, But time is passing like the mountain vapor,

And I'm the veriest wretch, of all these wretches. The ball room is the scene of many a caper,

The waltz from foreign lands the devil fetches,
And these, I purposed B-, to lay before ye,
But I must stop-perhaps I do but bore ye.

These lines are strictly confidential, mind ye,
And must not stagger through newspaper column.
To secrecy, I therefore firmly bind ye

By "smacking calfskin" in a manner solemn,
For should you print, and I thereafter find ye,
No matter how you may pretend t' extol 'em,
I'll drag you through a horsepond 'till you're muddy
Or beat you in arena, till you're bloody.

In some brief space, I mean to pass you by,

A spectre still, and Springs no more explore;

Yes I will hie me home, content to die"Not poppy nor mandragora" can cure,

*The facetious Nicklin enjoins all bachelors to stop in Alaba ma Row, but married men go on to Paradise, which is exclusively devoted to all persons in "a state of happy duplicity."

1

Or quell the fiends within my breast that lie, Perchance, my health may smile on me no moreAye-there they are the blue, the dismal devils! My lake of brimstone is their place of revels.

I make no doubt, if we could trace these fountains
We'd come at last to that infernal spot,
Deep in the bowels of these rock-clad mountains,
Where Satan flounder'd and became so hot,
As Milton tells us in his dire recountings

Of that most dark and diabolic plot,

When some curs'd spirits sought to storm all heaven, And thence, ten million fathoms down, were driven.

ELECTION DAY,

A Parody on the Sleet.

To-day, to-day's election day! the day to hold the polls, You'll find assembled on the ground a heap of jovial souls;

The folks are dress'd all in their best, the candidates are there

And jackasses are braying loud, and stallions neigh and

rear.

Each nag and many a noble horse unto the fence is hung And many a gall'd and sorry jade whose "withers have been wrung; 99

The bobtail'd and the long tail'd and the nick tail'd too behold,

And here and there the constable takes one out to be sold.

The blood-red bay and sorrel see, and old Cornplanter's

breed,

Pale as the steed that Death was on, as in St. John we

read;

Here's ev'ry horse of ev'ry kind, the lame, the halt, the blind,

And ev'ry man may choose him one as it may suit his mind.

Old Polly in Virginia cloth, with gingerbread, looks gay With all her four-pence-ha'-pennies, how rich is her display!

With cake and beer her table groans-it looks so neat and sweet,

It tempts the careless passer by, to stop, and drink, and

eat.

Old Honeypod! thou favor'd tree! fast by our tavern door,

Long didst thou shade the roaring lads, the men who lived of yore

But great as our good fathers were, of whom we're justly proud,

You never shaded yet such lads, as yonder motley crowd.

The tavern stands with open porch, and bar-room smelling strong

Of whiskey, where the sov'reigns take "the strong pull and the long,"

And now and then some broken glass comes shivering to the ground,

They're getting high-I know it well, by that symbolic sound.

Some bully big, some Irishman, "from Ireland all the way,"

Spreads out his pond'rous arms and fists, and dares you to the fray;

And as the bull shakes off the curs, that bark with might and main,

So shakes his weak assailants off, some great O'Shanoughshane.

But time would fail to tell of all, that vast assembled host,

Election days can show to you, and what each man they cost

The hiccup and the staggering gait!-how eloquent those signs!

The bloody nose! the eye gouged out! "expunged by blacken'd lines."

Ye despots of the earth come here, ye men of thousand thrones!

Come down awhile and look upon our sore and broken bones

Ye queens, no air must blow upon, what volumes that man speaks!

Who's got a murd'rous blow upon his ruddy swollen cheeks!

'Tis Liberty he doats upon, no charms for him have

crowns,

Unless they be the broken ones o'er which his stick resounds

Then cast your baubles vile away, and bow as sure you ought,

To him who hath the glorious fight, of rough and tumble fought.

Yet this loud tumult soon must end, and mark me, 'tis well known,

That by the fate of human things, each king must quit his throne

Oh cling not to your grandeur then-its penalties-its pains

But free your wretched serfs and slaves, and knock off all their chains.

What though the night so soon must stop the tongues that loudly bawl,

The law will make them wag again-the law, the lord of all

Election days must come again, in each revolving year, And then will come the gingerbread, the whiskey, and the beer,

The sun has set behind the hills-the polls are closed, away,

My friend is dropp'd and tears are shed, our foes have won the day

I too could shed some tears, alas! and dash to earth my wig,

But crying does no good you see—we'll take a parting swig.

THE DISCARDED.

Imitation of Byron's Ode to Napoleon.

Old man! but yesterday, gay Hope
Held out to thee a wife,
And now, a shilling for a rope!
To end thy hated life;
Is this the man of thousand pranks,
Who spent his time in "quips and cranks"
And was with fun so rife?-

Since he, in old Ægean deep,

Nor man, nor boy, hath felt so cheap.

Thou fool! of weak and simple mind,
To seek so high a prize!-
By gazing on that maid, I find

Thou must have lost thine eyes;
Bewilder'd-madden'd-so love-sick
Thine only gift hath been a kick
And scorn for all thy sighs-
Nor till that kick, couldst thou e'er guess
Thy chance was less than littleness.