THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,

"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,

Leander swam the Hellespont-and I will swim this here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain-
But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman-"O what was that, my daughter?"
""Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water;"
"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"
"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman-" Now bring me my harpoon!
I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon;"
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,
Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
But Fate has metamorphosed them in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

THE TREADMILL SONG.

The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,

And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs;
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;

What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to learn-

So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do,
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here-

And punch the little fellow's ribs,

And tweak that lubber's ear

He's lost them both-don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the further eye,
That isn't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport-suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,

And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;

The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And, I my kite pursuing,

The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat-
For me, two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,

When married folks get clashing;

There was a heavy sigh or two,

Before the fire was flashing

A little stir among the clouds,

Before they rent asunder

A little rocking of the trees,

And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,

And all below a clatter-
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;

I lost, ah! bitterly I wept

I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds, as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches-
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried-
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,

How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads,

The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents

Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,

But those young pantaloons have gone,
For ever and for ever!

And not till fate has cut the last

Of all my earthly stitches,

This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

There are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine-
Some filthy creature begs
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,

Poor little, lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread

And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come,

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 A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance," all at once,

Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,

To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground;
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be it is it is

A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

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 shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I wrote some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.