Poor patriots perish, persecution's pest!
Quite quiet Quakers "Quarter, quarter," quest;
Reason returns, religion, right, redounds,
Suwarow stop such sanguinary sounds!
Truce to thee, Turkey, terror to thy train!
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish vile vengeance, vanish victory vain!
Why wish we warfare? wherefore welcome won
Xerxes, Xantippus, Xavier, Xenophon?
Yield, ye young Yaghier yeomen, yield your yell!
Zimmerman's, Zoroaster's, Zeno's zeal

Again attract; arts against arms appeal.
All, all ambitious aims, avaunt, away!

Et cetera, et cetera, et ceterae.

Unknown.

THE HAPPY MAN

LA GALISSE now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,

I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.

La Galisse was, indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty,

When he was born; but could not want
As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,

He always was well bred,
And never used a hat to wear

But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels boiled his blood
Except when in a passion.

The Happy Man

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent

The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell

He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,

And never any physic took

But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train
Whene'er he walked before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;

And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows

That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amaze, and much delight:

He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

815

They liked him much-so it appears

Most plainly-who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;

Yet no opponents he o'erthrew

But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,-
What hero ever fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;

For that sad day that sealed his death
Deprived him of his life.

Gilles Ménage.

THE BELLS

OH, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E, And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D. Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

A Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.

The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling
For there I soon shall be.

Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.

No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling
But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

817

Unknown.

TAKINGS

He took her fancy when he came,
He took her hand, he took a kiss,
He took no notice of the shame
That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons,

He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive,
He took her master's silver spoons,
And after that he took his leave..

Thomas Hood, Jr.

A BACHELOR'S MONO-RHYME

Do you think I'd marry a woman
That can neither cook nor sew,
Nor mend a rent in her gloves
Or a tuck in her furbelow;
Who spends her time in reading
The novels that come and go;
Who tortures heavenly music,
And makes it a thing of woc;
Who deems three-fourths of my income
Too little, by half, to show

What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her,
'Mid the belles of Rotten Row;

Who has not a thought in her head

Where thoughts are expected to grow,

Except of trumpery scandals

Too small for a man to know?

Do you think I'd wed with that,
Because both high and low
Are charmed by her youthful graces
And her shoulders white as snow?
Ah no! I've a wish to be happy,
I've a thousand a year or so,
"Tis all I can expect

That fortune will bestow!

So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!
You're not for me, I trow,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow,

No, no! decidedly no!

Charles Mackay.

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING

How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers-folks that fish
With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome,
But never read it through;

They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce

Who borrows-never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut

From view-'tis all in vain;

They're gone-and though the leaves are

For pamphlets lent I look around,

For tracts my tears are spilt;

But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra guilt.

"cut"