O, a pistol, or a knife !
For I'm weary of my life;

My cup has nothing sweet left to flavor it;
My estate is out at nurse, .
And my heart is like my purse, –

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!
VOL. III. 20

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


Thus Alung 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 ?


A VERY pretty public stir
Is making, down at Exeter,

About the surplice fashion :
And many bitter words and rude
Have been bestowed upon the feud,

And much unchristian passion.

For me, I neither know nor care
Whether a Parson ought to wear

A black dress or a white dress;
Filld with a trouble of my own, -
A Wife who preaches in her gown,

And lectures in her night-dress !


O what's befallen Bessy Brown,

She stands so squalling in the street; She's let her pitcher tumble down,

And all the water 's at her feet!

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, –

Except a little in her shoes !

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!

And pours her flood of sorrows out, From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,

Just like the lion on the spout.

For well poor Bessy knows her mother

Must lose her tea, for water's lack, That Sukey burns, — and baby-brother

Must be dry-rubbed with huck-a-back!


[FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.] Now the loud Crye is up, and harke ! The barkye Trees give back the Bark ! The House Wyfe heares the merrie rout, And runnes — and lets the beere run out, Leaving her Babes to weepe — for why? She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye, And see the wild Stag how he stretches The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, Running like one of Human kind, Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind, As if he had not payde his Bill For Ven’son, or was owing still For his two Hornes, and soe did get Over his Head and Ears in Debt; Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye With his long Legges the while he maye; – But he is chased, like Silver Dish, As well as anye Hart may wish, Except that one whose Heart doth beat So faste it hasteneth his feet; And runninge soe, he holdeth Death Four Feet from him — till his Breath Faileth, and slacketh Pace at last, · From runninge slow he standeth faste, With hornie Bayonettes at baye, To baying Dogges around, and they

Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore,
And goreth them that seek his Gore, —
Whatever Dogge his Horne doth rive
Is dead — as sure as he's alive!
Soe that courageous Hart doth fight
With Fate, and calleth up his might,
And standeth stout that he maye fall
Bravelye, and be avenged of all,
Nor like a Craven yield his Breath
Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death!


O, WITHERED winter Blossoms,
Dowager-flowers — the December vanity.
In antiquated visages and bosoms, –

What are ye planned for,

Unless to stand for
Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity ?

There is my Quaker Aunt,
A Paper-Flower — with a formal border

No breeze could e'er disorder, Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry,

A puckered berry;
And Box, like tough-lived annuitant, —

Verdant alway, —
From quarter-day even to quarter-day;

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