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Smoked, joked, and swore away : Sworn by, he's now, by a

Large congregation !

Changed is the child of sin;
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin, -
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore :
Preacher was never more
Prized than is uncle for
Pulpit or platform.

If all 's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff, and its
Fair owner pardon;
All's for the best, — indeed,
Such is my simple creed;
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.

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,
Who, seated in his corner,

Finds a Christmas Pie provided for his thumb;
And cries out with exultation,

When successful exploration

Doth discover the predestinated plum !

Little Jack outgrows his 'tire,
And becometh John, Esquire ;

And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made,
Stuffed with stocks and bonds and bales,
Gold, currencies, and sales,

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 !

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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,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown,-

The Gotham Millions fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,-

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

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Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said: "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries: ""Tis, indeed, a. lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grand papas,
Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

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
I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit prægelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia.

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

THE BRYANT VASE. Designed by Jas. M. Whitehouse, of Tiffany & Co.

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O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k !
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O weary fa' the women fo'k,

For they winna let a body be!

I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I've lo'd them better than mysell,

I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can ;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.
O the women fo'k, etc.

That they hae gentle forms an' meet,
A man wi' half a look may see;
An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,

An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud,
And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
O the women fo'k, etc.

Even but this night nae farther gane,
The date is neither lost nor lang,
I tak ye witness ilka ane,

How fell they fought, and fairly dang.
Their point they 've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.

O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k !
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O weary fa' the women fo'k,

For they winna let a body be!

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Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my presumption ?) — I,
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the paper various wants produce, -
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace;
Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy-paper, of inferior worth;

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed;
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is course brown paper, such as pedlers choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys;
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout;
He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this side always right, and that stark
naught;

He foams with censure; with applause he raves;
A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,
What is he? what? Touch-paper, to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
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;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing;

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