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But of all unexpected things

That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise

In what is very dear. So Phoebe screamed an awful scream

To prove the seaman’s text; That after black appearances,

White squalls will follow next.

“Oh, Phoebe, dear! oh, Phoebe, dear!

Don't go to scream or faint ;
You think because I'm black I am

The Devil, but I ain't !
Behind the heels of Lady Lambe

I walked while I had breath ;
But that is past, and I am now

A-walking after Death !

“No murder, though, I come to tell,

By base and bloody crime ;
So Phæbe, dear, put off your fits

To some more fitting time.
No Coroner, like a boatswain's mate,

My body need attack,
With his round dozen to find out

Why I have died so black.

“One Sunday, shortly after tea,

My skin began to burn As if I had in my inside

A heater, like the urn.
Delirious in the night I grew,

And as I lay in bed,
They say I gathered all the wool

You see upon my head.

“ His Lordship for his doctor sent,

My treatment to begin ;-
I wish that he had called him out,

Before he called him in !
For though to physic he was bred,

And passed at Surgeon's Hall,
To make his post a sinecure

He never cured at all!

“ The doctor looked about my breast,

And then about my back, And then he shook his head and said

• Your case looks very black.' And first he sent me hot cayenne

And then gamboge to swallow, But still my fever would not turn

To Scarlet or to Yellow !

“ With madder and with turmeric,

He made his next attack ; But neither he nor all his drugs

Could stop my dying black. At last I got so sick of life,

And sick of being dosed,

One Monday morning I gave up
My physic and the ghost !

“Oh. Phoebe, dear, what pain it was

To sever every tie ! You know black beetles feel as much

As giants when they die.
And if there is a bridal bed,

Or bride of little worth,
It's lying in a bed of mould,

Along with Mother Earth.

“ Alas ; some happy, happy day,

In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin

Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match,

My fate untimely clashes, For now, like Pompe-double-i,

I’m sleeping in my ashes !

“ And now farewell ! a last farewell !

I'm wanted down below,
And have but time enough to add

One word before I go-
In mourning crape and bombazine

Ne’er spend your precious pelf-
Don't go in black for me—for I

Can do it for myself.

“ Henceforth within my grave I rest,

But Death who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come,

You seemed so out of spirits : But do not sigh, and do not cry,

By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color, turn

The color of a ghost !

“ Again, farewell, my Phoebe, dear!

Once more a last adieu !
For I must make myself as scarce

As swans of sable hue.”
From black to gray, from gray to nought,

The shape began to fade-
And, like an egg, though not so white,

The Ghost was newly laid !

EPIGRAM.

ON A LATE CATTLE SHOW IN SMITHFIELD.

Old Farmer Bull is taken sick,
Yet not with any sudden trick

Of fever, or his old dyspepsy ;
But having seen the foreign stock,
It gave his system such a shock

He had a fit of cattle-epsy!

ODE TO THE PRINTER’S DEVIL,

WHO BROUGHT ME A PROOF TO BE CORRECTED,

AND WHO FELL ASLEEP WHILE IT WAS UNDERGOING CORRECTION: BEING AN ODE FOUNDED ON FACT!

“Fallen Cherub!"-MILTON'S PARADISE Lost.

Oh bright and blessed hour ;-
The Devil's asleep !-I see his little lashes
Lying in sable o'er his sable cheek ;
Closed are his wicked little window-sashes,
And tranced is Evil's power!
The world seems hushed and dreaming out-a-doors,

Spirits but speak;
And the heart echoes, while the Devil snores.

Sleep, Baby of the damned !
Sleep, when no press of trouble standeth by!
Black wanderer amid the wandering,

How quiet is thine eye!
Strange are thy very small pernicious dreams-
With shades of printers crammed,
And pica, double pica, on the wing !

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