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Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie;

Like bees for honey, forth for news

they spring,Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;

Home to their several cells they bear the store,

[From Law.]

SLY LAWYERS.

Lo! that small office! there th' incautious guest

Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;

There in his web, th' observant spider lies, flies; And peers about for fat, intruding Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad Doubtful at first, he hears the distant

for more.

[From Physic.] QUACKS.

TINCTURE or syrup, lotion, drop, or pill,

All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;

And twenty names of cobblers turned to squires,

Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.

There are among them those who cannot read,

And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;

Will dare to promise dying sufferers

aid,

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IN silent ease, at least in silence, dine,

For who, when dead, can threaten or Nor one opinion start of food or wine:

upbraid?

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Men snatched from graves, as they were dropping in, Their lungs coughed up, their bones pierced through their skin; Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame

Poisoned with evils which they dare not name;

Men who spent all upon physicians' fees,

Thou know'st that all the science thou

canst boast,

Is of thy father's simple boiled and roast,

Nor always these; he sometimes saved his cash,

By interlinear days of frugal hash: Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou be so vain

As to decide on claret or champagne ? Dost thou from me derive this taste sublime,

Who order port the dozen at a time? When (every glass held precious in our eyes)

We judged the value by the bottle's size: [sume, Then never merit for thy praise asAre now as roaches sound, and all as Its worth well knows each servant in

Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease,

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No, Tom, you may banter as much as you please;
But it's all the result of the shellin' them peas.
Why, I had n't the slightest idee, do you know,
That so serious a matter would out of it grow.
I tell you what, Tom, I do feel kind o' scared.
I dreamed it, I hoped it, but never once dared
To breathe it to her. And besides, I must say
I always half fancied she fancied Jim Wray,
So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care
To be out of the way when that feller was there
A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him
That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim
At Katy or Jim, for it's all up with me;

And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see?

But you would n't have thought it; that girl never keered

The snap of a pea-pod for Jim's bushy beard.

Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries

Across near her garden to leave at Aunt Mary's;

When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree,

All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she-
Shellin' peas-setting there on a garden settee.

I swan, she was handsomer 'n ever I seen,
Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green.

Well, there wasn't no use; so, says I, I'll jest linger
And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa.

But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened,
So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened,
And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well;
And would she allow me to help her to shell?

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For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas
Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on her knees.
May I help you, Miss Katy?" says I. As you please,
Mr. Baxter," says she. But you're busy, I guess'
Glancin' down at my berries, and then at her dress.
"Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late;
And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Mary can wait."
So I sot down beside her; an' as nobody seen us,
I jest took the dish, and I held it between us.
And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor
To know which she likes, Jim or me, now or never!
But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held
That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled;
And pop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin'
Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkin'
Come over my spirits; till at last I got out,
"Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt
You see him quite often." "Well, sometimes. But why
And what if I did ?" "O, well, nothin'," says I.
"Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, though."
"Who says so ?" says she; and she flared up like tow
When you throw in a match. "Well, some folks that I know."
"T ain't true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod,
Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod.

Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down

With a blush she tried to chase off with a frown.

"Then it's somebody else you like better," says I.

"No, it ain't though," says she; and I thought she would cry. Then I tried to say somethin'; it stuck in my throat,

And all my idees were upset and afloat.

But I said I knew somebody 'd loved her so long

Though he never had told her—with feelin's so strong

He was ready to die at her feet, if she chosed,

If she only could love him!-I hardly supposed

That she cared for him much, though. And so Tom,-and so,For I thought that I saw how the matter would go,

With my heart all a jumpin' with rapture, I found

I had taken her hand, and my arm was around

Her waist ere I knew it, and she with her head
On my shoulder, but no, I won't tell what she said.
The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs;
The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs.

I tell you the world was a new world to me.

I can talk of these things like a book now, you see.
But the peas? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess
Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess.
It's risky to set with a girl shellin' peas.

You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please.

the dispute OF THE SEVEN DAYS. ONCE on a time the days of the week Quarrelled and made bad weather. The point was which of the seven was best;

So they all disputed together.

And Monday said, "I wash the clothes";

And Tuesday said, "I air 'em"; And Wednesday said, "I iron the shirts";

And Thursday said, "I wear 'em."

And Friday, "I'm the day for fish"; And Saturday, "Children love me";

And Sunday, "I am the Sabbath day,

I'm sure there are none above me."

"You. Sunday, sir, with your starched cravat,

Tell me the cause of this angry spat; Black coat, and church-veneering:

Speak loud, I am hard of hearing.

"You are the foremost talker here;
The wisest sure you should be.
I little thought such a deuce of a row
As you are all making, could be."

Then Sunday said, "Good Father
Time,

The case is clear as noonday; For ever since the world was made, The Lord's day has been Sunday. Here Monday

"The church 99

started up:

"The folks are glad when you leave 'em;

One said, "I am the fittest for They all want me to give 'em work,

work";

And one," I am fittest for leisure." Another, "I'm best for prayer and praise"; Jure." And another, "I'm best for pleas

Arguing thus, they flapped their

wings,

And puffed up every feather; They blew and rained and snowed and hailed:

There never was seen such weather.

Old Father Time was passing by,
And heard the hurly-burly.
Said he, "Here's something going

wrong;

It's well I was up so early.

And the pleasures of which you

bereave 'em."

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But Father Tempus cut them short: "My children, why this pother?

"These children of mine have lost There is no best, there is no worst;

their wits

And seem to be all non compos.

I never knew them to gabble thus.
Hollo there!- stop the rumpus!

"I should think you a flock of angry geese,

One day's just like another.

"To God's great eye all shine alike
As in their primal beauty.

That day is best whose deeds are best,
That worst that fails in duty.

To hear your screaming and bawl-"Where Justice lights the passing

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AUSTIN DOBSON.

MORE POETS YET!

MORE poets yet!" - I hear him say,
Aiming his heavy hand to slay; -

"Despite my skill and swashing blow,'
They seem to sprout where'er I go;-

I killed a host but yesterday!"

Slash on, O Hercules! You may;

Your task's at best a Hydra-fray;

And though you cut, not less will grow
More poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall outblot the morning glow,
Or stem the full heart's overflow?
Who? There will rise, till time decay,
More poets yet!

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