ANACREONTIC. BY A FOOTMAN. It's wery well to talk in praise Of sober draughts, so clear and cool, Of babbling brooks, and purling rills, But what becomes of all sich schemes, When Winter comes with piercing cold, Is frozen far and wide; What then are thirsty men to do, Port, sherry, or the Rhenish sort, BACKING THE FAVORITE! O, a pistol, or a knife! For I'm weary of life; my My cup has nothing sweet left to flavor it; My estate is out at nurse, And heart is like my purse, my And all through backing of the Favorite! At dear O'Neil's first start, I sported all my heart; O, Becher, he never marred a braver hit! For he crossed her in her race, And made her lose her place, And there was an end of that Favorite! Anon, to mend my chance, For the goddess of the Dance I pined, and told my enslaver it; But she wedded in a canter, And made me a Levanter, In foreign lands to sigh for the Favorite! Then next Miss M. A. Tree I adored, so sweetly she Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it; But she left that course of life To be Mr. Bradshaw's wife, And all the world lost on the Favorite! But out of sorrow's surf, Soon I leaped upon the turf, Where Fortune loves to wanton it and waver it; But standing on the pet, "O, my bonny, bonny Bet!" Black and yellow pulled short up with the Favorite! Thus flung by all the crack, I resolved to cut the pack; The second-raters seemed then a safer hit! So I laid my little odds Against Memnon! O, ye gods! Am I always to be floored by the Favorite? THE SURPLICE QUESTION. A VERY pretty public stir Is making, down at Exeter, About the surplice fashion : For me, I neither know nor care A black dress or a white dress; AS IT FELL UPON A DAY. O what's befallen Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street; The little school-boys stood about, And laughed to see her pumping, pumping; Now with a curtsey to the spout, And then upon her tiptoes jumping. Long time she waited for her neighbors, To have their turns: - but she must lose The watery wages of her labors, — Without a voice to tell her tale, And ugly transport in her face; All like a jugless nightingale, She thinks of her bereaved case. At last she sobs, - she cries, - she screams! For well poor Bessy knows her mother That Sukey burns, and baby-brother Must be dry-rubbed with huck-a-back! THE FALL OF THE DEER. [FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.] Now the loud Crye is up, and harke! As well as anye Hart may wish, And runninge soe, he holdeth Death |