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النشر الإلكتروني

THE DOLLARS.

BY WM. E. BURTON.

WE find throughout this earthly ball,
The "one thing needful" governs all;
Nobles, commons, dunces, scholars,
Nothing's done without the dollars.
That money flies the poet sings,
On paper or on golden wings;
This solemn truth each biped knows,
It makes him look straight down his nose,
To see the way the money goes.

The bachelor, tired of single life,
Resolves to venture on a wife;
His house is furnished all in taste,
And purse and pocket run to waste.
She orders sofas, couches, chairs,

Curtains, and carpets, and china wares,

French clocks, French lamps, and French quelque

chose,

Each day her taste more costly grows,

And that's the way the money goes.

Ere twelve months their course have run,
His wife presents him with a son;
Instead of making the pappy glad,
The expenses almost drive him mad.

1

Child's cap, child's frock, child's cradle, child's

chair,

Doctor and nurse, expensive pair-
Cordials, cake, and wine o'erflows,
Christening frolic, friends in rows,-
And that's the way the money goes.

All lottery tickets turn up blanks,
And those who play at pharo banks,
At poko, brag, or loo, or bluff,
Must all be sure to lose enough.
Of horses fond, you go to a race,
And back your favourite's time and pace;
Some better nag does him oppose-
You lose and cursing fortune's throws,
Say, that's the way my money goes.

The ladies, by their love of dress,
Cause mankind's pockets deep distress,
Fashion's follies each one follows,
And plays the devil with our dollars.
Your wife just chucks you under the chin,
Hats, caps, gowns, shawls, are ordered in;
Daughters, sisters, fishing for beaux,
Want fresh bait-who can oppose,
Or grudge that way the money goes.

A lot of real estate you buy-
To rent your houses out you try-
But spite of all that you can do,
Repairs and taxes eat you through;

At last, and much to your delight,
Your tenant moves away at night;
Where he's gone you can't suppose→
Of course a twelvemonth's rent he owes,-
And that's the way the money goes.

And then again the whole-souled boys,
Who will indulge in tavern joys,
And round the bar are daily found,
And bitters and wine and wit go round.
Sangarees and cocktails not a few,
Toddies, and slings, and juleps too;
Champaigne in goblets freely flows,
Till drunk they stagger home to doze,-
And that's the way the money goes.

No wonder money is so scarce,
While market charges are so fierce;
The price of pork brings great distress,
And five-cent loaves grow daily less;
In meat's high price there's no decrease,
In turkeys, fowls, or game, or geese.
How we're to live there's nobody knows,
Or pay for fire to warm our toes-
The devil knows how the money goes.

In summer time the dollars have wings,
The ladies all must see the springs;
Travelling charges, hotel bills,
Steamboats, railroads, and other ills.
In winter, parties and balls abound,

Or in a sleigh you skim the ground.

Stay out all night, though hard it snowsMulled wine-hot punch-and no repose,And that's the way the money goes.

Some folks, in hopes to cut a dash,
In stocks will venture all their cash,
And buy on time-in long and short,
S. O. or B. O.-Sold and bought.
When time is up, 'tis you who pay-
Or if you win, your friend's away.
Fall or rise-you're sure to lose;
How 'tis managed nobody knows,
But well you know your money goes.

Then since the times are really bad,
Your spirits will get dull and sad;
To cheer your minds and get delight,
Best crowd the theatre every night.
Care killed a cat, and life is short,
Enjoy yourselves in mirth and sport;
Come in hundreds, belles and beaux,
Crowd completely all those rows,
And well I'll say your money goes!
24*

THE SPRING BIRD.

BY M. A. D'W. HOWE.

WHEN fancied woes my heart oppress,
And joy my pensive thoughts disown,
No songs dispel my wretchedness;

Scarce grief refrains its plaintive moan. Yet thou, sweet bird, when storms invade, And tempests fill the frowning sky, Canst shake the rain-drops from thy head, And chant thy cheerful minstrelsy!

Though clouds with teeming torrents lower,
The sun his beams reluctant hide,
Thine eye paints verdure on each bower,
And hope creates a summer-tide.
Sweet songster! pour thy note of glee;
Faith shall dispel my spirit's gloom-

Unseal my eyes,—and bid them see

A clime, where flowers perennial bloom!

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