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BACKING THE FAVORITE!
O, a pistol, or a knife !
My cup has nothing sweet left to flavor it;
And all through backing of the Favorite!
At dear O'Neil's first start,
O, Becher, he never marred a braver hit !
And there was an end of that Favorite!
Anon, to mend my chance,
I pined, and told my enslaver it ;
In foreign lands to sigh for the Favorite!
Then next Miss M. A. Tree
Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it ;
And all the world lost on the Favorite!
But out of sorrow's surf,
Where Fortune loves to wanton it and waver it;
Thus Alung by all the crack,
The second-raters seemed then a safer hit!
Am I always to be floored by the Favorite ?
THE SURPLICE QUESTION.
A VERY pretty public stir
About the surplice fashion :
And much unchristian passion.
For me, I neither know nor care
A black dress or a white dress;
And lectures in her night-dress !
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.
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!
THE FALL OF THE DEER.
[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,
A WINTER NOSEGAY.
O, WITHERED winter Blossoms,
What are ye planned for,
Unless to stand for
There is my Quaker Aunt,
No breeze could e'er disorder, Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry,
A puckered berry;
Verdant alway, —