Because Humanity declares we must! We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'em, And finding that we cannot wash them white, But still their nigritude offends the sight, A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY. NE day-I had it from a hasty mouth, Herschell, or Baily But one of those great men who watch the skies, Was looking at that Orb whose ancient God "Lord, master!" muttered John, a liveried elf, THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST. A LONDON LEGEND. OMEWHERE in Leather Lane I wonder that it was not Mincing, Dealt in those well-minced cartridges of meat However, all such quibbles overstepping, In Leather Lane he lived; and drove a trade Right brisk was the demand, Seldom his goods stay'd long on hand, And other foreign toys— Of sweetness undeniable, So sleek, so mottled, and so "friable," Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought, And bought. Meanwhile a constant thumping Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping- But though he had a foreman and assistant, (Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys) For chopping fast enough To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages, Was none of those dull men and slow, And therefore in a kind of waking dream Listen'd to some hot-water sprite that hinted To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was printed, By steam! Accordingly in happy hour, A bran-new Engine went to work Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power, When lo! when ev'rything to hope responded, His anxious Wife in vain Placarded Leather Lane, And all the suburbs with descriptive bills, The sausage-maker, spite of white and black, Never, alive!-But on the seventh night, In fifty thousand pieces! "O Mary!" so it seem'd In hollow melancholy tone to say, Whilst thro' its airy shape the moonlight gleam'd "O Mary! let your hopes no longer flatter, C. It ain't no use to mince the matter- TO JOSEPH HUME, ESQ., M.P. "I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." H, Mr. Hume, thy name The ponce provably made Hum рини! |