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Or he's not too nice to mix

0, the world keeps Christmas Day In the dish of politics ;

In a queer, perpetual way ; And the dignity of office he puts on ;

Shouting always, “What a great big boy am I !" And he feels as big again

Yet how many of the crowd As a dozen nobler men,

Thus vociferating loud, While he writes himself the Honorable John! And their honors or pretensions lifting high,

Have really, more than Jack, Ah me, for the poor nation !

With their boldness or their knack, In her hour of desperation,

Had a finger in the making of the Pie ? Her worst foe is that unsparing Horner thumb!

To which War and Death and Hate,

Right, Policy, and State, Are but pies wherefrom his greed may grasp a plum!

COMFORT. 0, the work was fair and true,

Who would care to pass his life away But 't is riddled through and through,

Of the Lotos-land a dreamful denizen, And plundered of its glories everywhere ;

Lotos-islands in a waveless bay, And before men's cheated eyes

Sung by Alfred Tennyson ! Doth the robber triumph rise

Who would care to be a dull new-comer And magnify itself in all the air.

Far across the wild sea's wide abysses,

Where, about the earth's three thousandth sum. Why, if even a good man dies,

mer, And is welcomed to the skies

Passed divine Ulysses ?
In the glorious resurrection of the just,
They must ruffle it below

Rather give me coffee, art, a book,
With some vain and wretched show,

From my windows a delicious sea-view, To make each his little mud-pie of the dust!

Southdown mutton, somebody to cook, —

“Music ?” – I believe you. Shall we hint at Lady Horners, Who, in their exclusive corners,

Strawberry icebergs in the summer time, Think the world is only made of upper-crust? But of elm-wood many a massive splinter, Who in the queer mince-pie

Good ghost stories, and a classic rhyme, That we call Society,

For the nights of winter. Do their dainty fingers delicately thrust ;

Now and then a friend and some Sauterne, Till, if it come to pass,

Now and then a haunch of Highland venison, In the spiced and sugared mass,

And for Lotos-land I'll never yearn, One should compass — don't they call it so ?-

Malgré Alfred Tennyson. a catch,

MORTIMER COLLINS By the gratulation given

It would seem the very heaven
Had outdone itself in making such a match !

Or the Womav Horner, now,

| 0, SAIRLY may I rue the day Who is raising such a row

I fancied first the womenkind ; To prove that Jack 's no bigger boy than Jill ;

For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae And that she won't sit by,

Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!

They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e,
With her little saucer pie,
While he from the Great Pastry picks his fill.

Au' teased an' flattered me at will,
But aye for a' their witcherye,

The pawky things I lo'e them still.
Jealous-wild to be a sharer
In the fruit she thinks the fairer,

• The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Flings by all for the swift gaining of her wish;

Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by

Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have for Not discerning in her blindness,

got. It is my own favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by How a tender Loving Kindness

ladies against my will, which tot frequently happens; and, notwith

standing my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well Hid the best things in her own rejected dish!

again. - THE AUTHOR.

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O the women fo'k ! O the women fo'k! | Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,

But they hae been the wreck o' me ; Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.
O weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be !

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true ;

Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I (can you pardon my presumption ?)— I,
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,

No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
I've lo'd them better than mysell,
I've tried again to like them ill.

Various the paper various wants produce, — Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,

The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. To comprehend what nae man can ;

Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
When he has done what man can do,

Each sort of paper represents some man.
He 'll end at last where he began.
O the women fo’k, etc.

Pray note the for, half powder and half lace ;

Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; That they hae gentle forms an' meet,

He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store, A man wi' half a look may see ;,

And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.
An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,
An' waving curls aboon the bree;

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud, Are copy-paper, of inferior worth ;
And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed ;
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd, - Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair !

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, O the women fo’k, etc.

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Even but this night nae farther gane,

Is course brown paper, such as pedlers choose The date is neither lost nor lang,

To wrap up wares, which better men will use. I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Their point they've carried right or wrang,

Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; Without a reason, rhyme, or law,

Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; An' forced a man to sing a sang,

He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt.
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
O the women fo'k ! O the women fo’k ! The retail politician's anxious thought
But they hae been the wreck o' me ;

Deems this side always right, and that stark O weary fa' the women fo'k,

naught ; For they winna let a body be !

He foams with censure ; with applause he raves ; JAMES HOGG

| A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves ;

He 'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, WOMAN.

While such a thing as foolscap has a name. WHEN Eve brought woe to all mankind

| The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Old Adam called her wo-man;

Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,
But when she wooed with love so kind, Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure, —
He then pronounced her woo-man. .

What is he? - what? Touch-paper, to be sure.
But now, with folly and with pride, ..
Their husbands' pockets trimming,

What are our poets, take them as they fall, The women are so full of whims

Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? That men pronounce them wimmen! They and their works in the same class you 'll

find ;

They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet !

She's fair, white paper, an unsullied sheet; SOME wit of old - such wits of old there were, on which the happy man whom fate ordains Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions May write his name, and take her for his pains.

care — By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, One instance more, and only one I'll bring; Called clear, blank paper every infant mind; / 'T is the great man who scorns a little thing ;


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