Smoked, joked, and swore away : Sworn by, he's now, by a Large congregation ! Changed is the child of sin; If all 's as best befits FREDERICK LOCKER. JACK HORNER. ROM "MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS." "Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner Eating a Christmas Pie; He put in his thumb, And pulled out a plum, And said, What a great boy am I !'" AH, the world hath many a Horner, Finds a Christmas Pie provided for his thumb; When successful exploration Doth discover the predestinated plum ! Little Jack outgrows his 'tire, And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made, And all the mixed ingredients of Trade. And again it is his luck To be just in time to pluck, By a clever "operation," from the pie An unexpected "plum ;" So he glorifies his thumb, And says proudly, "What a mighty man am I !" Or, perchance to science turning, And with weary labor learning All the formulas and phrases that oppress her, For the fruit of others' baking So a fresh diploma taking, Comes he forth, a full accredited Professor ! THE WOMEN FO'K.* O, SAIRLY may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye for a' their witcherye, The pawky things I lo'e them still. The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which to frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again. THE AUTHOR. FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, And none might tell from sight alone The Gotham Millions fair to see, The Boston Mind of azure hue, For all loved Art in a seemly way, Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke The Western one from the nameless place, Over three faces a sad smile flew, But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred Deftly hiding reproof in praise, But brief her unworthy triumph when With the consciousness of two grand papas, And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me! "I did not catch your remark, because Dies erit prægelida JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. THE BRYANT VASE. Designed by Jas. M. Whitehouse, of Tiffany & Co. O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k ! For they winna let a body be! I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've tried again to like them ill. That they hae gentle forms an' meet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; Even but this night nae farther gane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k ! For they winna let a body be! Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Various the paper various wants produce, - Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth, Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys The retail politician's anxious thought He foams with censure; with applause he raves; The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, What are our poets, take them as they fall, They are the mere waste-paper of mankind. Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! One instance more, and only one I'll bring; |