Oil the engines, see all clear; All above one smoke-black sky: The funnel's gone! cries every tongue out, While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, The fire is out- we've burst the bellows, A LAY OF REAL LIFE. "Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH. "Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones.” SILVERSMITH. WHO ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn My Grandfather. Who said my mother was no nurse, And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother. Who left me in my seventh year, And Mr. Pope, the overseer? My Father. Who let me starve, to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me "ugly little sin?” My Mother. Who said my mother was a Turk And took me home and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt. Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle. Who got in scrapes, an endless score, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin. Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother. Who marred my stealthy urchin joys, And when I played cried "What a noise!” Girls always hector over boys My Sister. Who used to share in what was mine, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother. Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," My Godfather. Who, gratis, shared my social glass, My Friend. Through all this weary world, in brief, Myself. A VALENTINE. THE WEATHER TO P. MURPHY,* ESQ., M.N.S. These, properly speaking, being esteemed the three arms of Meteoric action. DEAR Murphy, to improve her charms, Your servant humbly begs; She thanks you for her leash of arms, * An Almanac-maker. Moreover, as you promise folks, On certain days a drizzle; She thinks, in case she cannot rain, Some lightning too may just fall due, POEM FROM THE POLISH. Some months since a young lady was much surprised at receiving, from the Captain of a Whaler, a blank sheet of paper, folded in the form of a letter, and duly sealed. At last, recollecting the nature of sympathetic ink, she placed the missive on a toasting-fork, and after holding it to the fire for a minute or two, succeeded in thawing out the following verses. FROM Seventy-two north latitude, But first I'd have you understand How hard it is to write. [burn, Of thoughts that breathe and words that My Kitty, do not think, Before I wrote these very lines, I had to melt my ink. |