And, to make her cup of woe run over,
Her elegant, ardent, plighted lover

Was the very first to forsake her;
"He quite regretted the step, 'twas true-
The lady had pride enough for two,'
But that alone would never do

To quiet the butcher and baker."

And now the unhappy Miss MACBRIDE—
The merest ghost of her early pride-
Bewails her lonely position;

Cramped in the very narrowest niche,
Above the poor, and below the rich,
Was ever a worse condition?

MORAL.

Because you flourish in worldly affairs,
Don't be haughty, and put on airs,

With insolent pride of station;
Don't be proud, and turn up your nose
At poorer people in plainer clo'es,

But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose,
That wealth's a bubble that comes-and goes!
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows,
Is subject to irritation !

PHAETHON, OR THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

AN PHAETHON-so the histories run

DAN

Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun; Or rather of PHŒBUS-but as to his mother,

Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,

Some going for one, and some for another;
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA !
Now old Father PнŒBUS, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of “The Sun,”
Running, they say,

Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),

All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay !

NOW PHAETHON begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favour, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means PнŒBUS's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx," said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire !"
"Then by my head,”

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed

For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive !" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't

I beg you won't-

Just stop a moment, and think upon't!

You're quite too young,

̧” continued the sage,

"To tend a coach at your early age;

Besides, you see,

"Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly riled,'
Depend upon't, the coach will be 'spiled'-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day

So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!"
But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd-
He'd have the horses, and wouldn't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!

Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry;
But, having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.
So calling PHAETHON up in a trice,

He

gave

the youth a bit of advice:

Parce stimulis, utere loris! (A 'stage direction,' of which the core is, Don't use the whip-they're ticklish things— But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)

Some going for one, and some for another;
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA !
Now old Father PHŒBUS, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun,"
Running, they say,

Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),
All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's “shay,”
With never a fare, and nothing to pay !

NOW PHAETHON begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favour, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means PнŒBUS's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx," said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire !"
"Then by my head,”

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed

For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't—

I beg you won't-

Just stop a moment, and think upon't!

You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your early age;

Besides, you see,

"Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly riled,'
Depend upon't, the coach will be 'spiled'-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day—

So mind, and don't be foolish, Pía!”
But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

"Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd-
He'd have the horses, and wouldn't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!

Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry;
But, having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.
So calling PHAETHON up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice:

66 6 Parce stimulis, utere loris! (A stage direction,' of which the core is, Don't use the whip-they're ticklish thingsBut, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)