MY DOG AND I.

COME here, old Jack, sit by my knee;
I'll smoke my pipe beside the fire,
And should I break my reverie

And talk, I'm sure you will not tire.
"Tis six years since, a long-legged pup,
They brought you here with too much collar;
I don't know where they picked you up,
I know I owe for you a dollar.

Well, good old boy, in those six years,

With some few months and odd since gathered,Time faster goes than it appears!

You've made some girth, and I have weathered Some cares, some debt, a few gray hairs, A face less gay than when I started; My fault if then I planted tares,

And reap them somewhat heavier hearted.

I think, Jack, in those six long years

I've won and lost most things worth winning, Nor traveled on untracked by tears,

Through wine, and work, and pleasant sinning
Yet this. Whatever they may say
Of chances gone and lessons wasted,
I would not give Fate back one day,
Bitter or sweet, that I have tasted.

What matter, when the sun is set,
Whether it be on joy or sorrow.
Why waste the night in dull regret,

Instead of waiting for the morrow?
There's work in hand-a sweet girl's smile,
A friend in time of need to send to,
And but to wait a little while,

That friend will be a friend to lend to.

Your fond old nose rests in my hand,
As if you think I reck at little;
I half believe you understand -

Let's have some sugar and a kettle —
I half believe you understand

My vagrant mood, the way you're listening. Old boy! Time will run out his sand, Whether your eyes or mine are glistening.

You drop a paw upon my breast,

Half timid whether you may risk it; Why, Jack, no truer touch e'er pressed, So here's some sugar and a biscuit. I'd rather pat your silken head

Than fondle a Delilah's tresses; Your love wants little, hers instead At least a novelty in dresses.

With you I've no heart bitterness

No false kiss given - promise broken-
No subtle wrong beyond redress

No treacherous word in sweetness spoken,
I would not take from Fate one day;
I would not give to Fate another,
For fairest thing in human clay,

For nearest kith or dearest brother.

My pipe, my dog close by my knee;
My quiet corner by the fire;
The right to hold a reverie,

With book and pen-all I require.
What matter when the sun is set,
Whether it be on joy or sadness?
To waste the night in dull regret

At best is but a dullard's madness.

There's work in hand — let that be done.

A sweet girl's smile- how many share it? 'T was dearly prized and hardly won;

Yet I'd without much heartache spare it.
The friend in time of need to ask,

He'd make the most of smallest favor.
We'll save him, Jack, the ugly task,
And save ourselves the ugly savor.

Love - friendship-beauty; things that fly;
Give them their due-a passing greeting.
Better to let them come and die

Careless in parting as in meeting.
There is not one that is not bought

By longer purse or newer pleasure,
I seek them not, nor would be sought;

Such sweets make dregs-I've drained the measure.

So let them go, Jack; I and you

Will do as we have in worst of weather;

Do what there's left the best to do,

And plod our simple way together. You have your biscuit-I my smokeA glass of groga quiet corner;

So let life be a pleasant joke,

Until you are my only mourner.

Ernest Brent.

MEDIOCRITY.

FOR aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with tou much as they that starve with nothing: it is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Shakspeare.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Body of turkey, head of owl,

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him!- He sailed away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own towns-people on her deck!
"Lay by lay by!" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie for evermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,—
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horns' bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"