Prythee take thy German Flute, Why, Tourist, why The Seven Mountains view? Any one at home can tint A hill with Prussian Blue. Why, Tourist, why To old Colonia's walls? Sure, to see a Wrenish dome, One need n't leave St. Paul's. A BULL. ONE day- no matter where or when, A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards, The stake, the same that the old Source of Sin From German Faustus, and his German cousins Had won by dozens; The only one, in fact, he cares a pin By luck or roguery of course old Nick Won every trick: The score was full, the last turn-up had done it,— "Your soul—I've won it!" "It's true for you, I've lost that same," Said Pat, a little hazy in his wits, "My soul is yours, but come,—another Double, or quits!" game, SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM. WHEN Woman is in rags and poor, And sorrow, cold, and hunger tease her, If man would only listen more To that small voice that crieth Without the guidance of a friend, "Ease her!" Though legal sharks and screws attack her, If man would only more attend To that small voice that crieth So oft it would not be his fate "Back her!" To witness some despairing dropper In Thames's tide, and run too late To that small voice that crieth 66 Stop her!" THE LARK AND THE ROOK. A FABLE. "Lo! hear the gentle lark!"—} SHAKESPEARE. ONCE on a time. no matter where Hour after hour, Through ev'ry change of weather, hard or soft, Through sun and shade, and wind and shower, Still fluttering aloft; In silence now, and now in song, Up, up in cloudland all day long, On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight, It caused, of course, much speculation Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it, The robin puzzled at it, and the wren, The swallows, cock and hen, The wagtail, and the linnet, The yellow-hammer, and the finch as well, "Friend, prithee, tell me why You keep this constant hovering so high, A speck against the sky, Neglectful of each old familiar feature Of Earth that nursed you in your callow state,You think you're only soaring at heaven's gate, Whereas you 're flying in the face of Nature!" 66 Friend," said the Lark, with melancholy tone, And in each little eye a dewdrop shone, "No creature of my kind was ever fonder Of that dear spot of earth Which gave it birth, — And I was nestled in the furrow yonder! Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath, And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath, But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurf Of dirt and infamy about the Turf, I do not like to settle on it!" MORAL. Alas! how nobles of another race Appointed to the bright and lofty way, Too willingly descend to haunt a place Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey! A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME. "The attempt and not the deed."-LADY MACBETH. (COPY.) If I were used to writing verse, If I, alas! had such a Muse, And breathe the true poetic vein, |