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7

BALLADS AND HUMOROUS PIECES.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY.

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,
Who grace this famous city,
Just listen, if ye've time to spare,
While I rehearse a ditty;
And for the opportunity,
Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For 't is not often that you see,
A hunter from Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.
We are a hardy free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger,
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger;
8

And if a daring foe annoys,
Whate'er his strength and forces,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
Are “alligator horses.”
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
I s'pose you 've read it in the prints,
How Packenham attempted
To make Old Hickory Jackson wince,
But soon his scheme repented;
For we with rifles ready cocked,
Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flocked
The hunters of Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
You 've heard, I s'pose, how New Orleans
Is famed for wealth and beauty—
There 's girls of every hue, it seems,
From snowy white to sooty:
So Packenham he made his brags,
If he in fight was lucky,
He 'd have their girls and cotton bags,
In spite of Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
But Jackson, he was wide awake,
And was n't scared at trifles;
9

For well he knew what aim we take,
With our Kentucky rifles;
So he led us down to Cypress swamp,
The ground was low and mucky;
There stood John Bull, in martial pomp,
And here was Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
A bank was raised to hide our breast,
Not that we thought of dying,
But then we always like to rest,
Unless the game is flying;
Behind it stood our little force—
None wished it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse,
And half an alligator.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
They did not let our patience tire,
Before they showed their faces—
We did not choose to waste our fire,
So snugly kept our places;
But when so near we saw them wink,
We thought it time to stop them;
And 't would have done you good, I think.
To see Kentucky pop them.
Oh! Kentucky, &c.
10

They found at last, 't was vain to fight
Where lead was all their booty,
And so they wisely took to flight,
And left us all the beauty.
And now, if danger e'er annoys,
Remember what our trade is,
Just send for us Kentucky boys,
And we'll protect you, ladies.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

THE WATERMAN.

Let philosophers boast of their learning and skill,
And tell us what sages have thought o' men;
It yet is a fact, sirs, deny it who will,
Human nature's the study for watermen.
For ours is the talent to soon put afloat
All ages, professions, and sizes;
From the sweep's sooty rug to the gaudy laced coat,
As the grade to the general rises.
While we row,
To and fro,
One way look, the other go.
Our boats convey from shore to shore,
The great, the small, the rich, the poor,
11

The short, the tall, the fat, the lean,
The fair, the brown, the brave, the mean;
The maid, the widow, wife, and mother,
And some who 're neither one nor 't other.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.
There's querists, quibblers, quids, and quakers,
Butchers, brokers, brewers, bakers;
Blacksmiths, boatmen, bailiffs, butlers,
Cartmen, coopers, caulkers, cutlers;
Drummers, drapers, drivellers, drovers,
Riggers, ravers, ranters, rovers;
Farmers, fiddlers, fuddlers, furriers,
Carvers, clothiers, clerks, and curriers;
Gownmen, grocers, gardeners, gilders,
Bullies, bruisers, barbers, builders;
Founders, framers, fools, refiners,
Jurors, judges, jobbers, joiners;
Saddlers, sweepers, singers, sailors,
Tanners, turners, tinkers, tailors;
Tenants, tyrants, truants, teachers,
Poets, printers, painters, preachers.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.
Tobacconists, bookbinders, stonecutters, sawyers,
With carpenters, constables, lovers, and lawyers;
Musicians, confectioners, vintners, and glaziers,
With innkeepers, inkmakers, hatters and braziers;
12

Auctioneers, and attorneys, with priests and physicians,
Engravers, designers, and scribbling magicians.
Thus ours is the talent, &c.
Shoemakers, watchmakers, coachmakers, sailmakers,
Ropemakers, chairmakers, pinmakers, pailmakers;
With weighers, surveyors,
Street inspectors,
Bank directors;
The seller of jewels
And the fighter of duels.
Thus ours is the talent to soon put afloat,
All ages, professions, and sizes,
From the sweep's sooty rug to the gaudy laced coat,
As the grade to the general rises.
While we row,
To and fro,
One way look, the other go.
13

RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

While each freeman's son
Boasts of rights in plenty,
Daughters have but one,
E'en at one-and-twenty:
'T is the right to choose
Whom we mean to marry,
And, at once, refuse
Tom, or Dick, or Harry;
'T is our chartered right,
Nature's hand has penned it,
Let us then unite
Bravely to defend it.
While our fathers fought
For our independence,
Patriot mothers taught
This to their descendants:—
Daughters guard and save
Rights too dear to barter,
Spurn the name of slave,
Freedom is your charter.
You 've the right to choose
Whom you mean to marry,
14

Whom you will refuse,
Tom, or Dick, or Harry.
Men may boast the bliss
Of a free election,
Women ask but this,
Uncontrolled affection;
Then we cheerly say,
Tutored by the pastor,
“Honor, love, obey,”
To our lord and master.
Daughters, guard and save
Rights too dear to barter,
Spurn the name of slave,
Freedom is our charter.
There 's a claim more strong
Than a sire's or brother's;
If they think us wrong,
Let them ask our mothers:
When they played their parts,
Urged by love and beauty,
With their hands and hearts
They transferred their duty.
'T is our chartered right,
Nature's hand has penned it,
Let us then unite
Bravely to defend it.
15

WILLIAM'S PROMOTION.

The drum had ceased, the bugle slept,
The sentry marched with footsteps wary,
When ditch and picket William leapt,
Eager to see his wedded Mary.
But ah! his colonel, just before,
On her defenceless state presuming,
Had entered Mary's cottage door,
The husband's voice and dress assuming.
Soft and sly, Mary fled; William's eye soothed her dread.
“Ills infernal seize the colonel!”
Cried he, unwary.
But Mary suggested, that he be arrested,
And as a deserter to camp returned;
And William, who with resentment burn'd,
Commends the thought, and soon is brought
A brisk sergeant's guard; the colonel pleads hard,
But his disguise deceives all eyes;
He swears and cries, while none replies;
Safely guarded, not retarded,
William sees him borne from Mary;
16

Faithful Mary, beautiful Mary,
Dear little, sweet little, constant Mary.
The morning came, the reveille beat,
The troops paraded bright and airy,
And there, in regimentals neat,
William had brought his lovely Mary.
The colonel, now restored to rank,
Around on milk-white charger prances,
Until his eye, upon the flank,
Is caught by blushing Mary's glances.
Soon he asks, who was mad, to enlist such a lad;
William ready, answered steady,
Bright, brisk, and airy:
“The youth I recruited, I hope you are suited,
For though he is young, and tender, and light,
He took a deserter, sir, last night;
Though dark and damp, some way from camp
The villian was caught, and hither brought,
In deep disguise.” The colonel's eyes
Betray surprise—at length he cries,
“Be it noted—you 're promoted
Ensign—ever guard your Mary;
Faithful Mary, beautiful Mary,
Dear little, sweet little, constant Mary.”
17

DOCTOR STRAMONIUM.

A last and a lapstone, were once my delight,
And I sung while I hammered, from morning till night;
But all the day's earnings, at eve, I would spend,
Till the thread of my credit was brought to an end.
SPOKEN.

For I was up to a thing or two, and loved fun; passed the night in reciting Shakespeare at the alehouse, and kept myself awake the next day, by beating time with the hammer, while I sung—

Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramped,
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamped.
I next taught the gamut, the sharps, and the flats,
To a nasal-twanged bass, and a treble of cats;
Till my private duett with a miss, got abroad,
Which changed the key note, and produced a discord.
SPOKEN.

A little love affair, that ran counter to my wishes, and induced some slanderous tongues to pronounce the whole tenor of my conduct to be thorough bass. So, without venturing a da capo, I pocketed the slur, leapt the bar with a quick movement, and left the flats to harmonize as they could; for all the gossips had decreed that their daughters should have nothing more to do with my

Fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la, me;
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.
18

A travelling merchant I quickly became,
With a new stock in trade, a new dress, and new name;
And I bartered my goods with such exquisite grace,
That I left a fair mourner in every place.
SPOKEN.

“O Tabitha, what will become of me! The dear, sweet Mr. Rover (for that was my travelling name), my dear, sweet Mr. Rover, the pedler, is gone, and perhaps I shall never see him again. Oh, dear?”—“Your dear, sweet Mr. Rover, indeed? I'd have you to know, Cousin Keziah, that he is my dear, sweet Mr. Rover, and he has left me something to remember him by.”—“Oh, the base wicked deceiver! He has left me something too.” Thus would they sympathize with each other, or tear caps for poor Rover, while I was unconsciously preparing a similar mine to spring in the next village; or jogging quietly along the road inviting every one to buy my

Dutch ovens, cullenders, dippers and pans,
Broaches and buckles, with ear-rings and fans.
A schoolmaster, next, with a visage severe,
Board, lodging, and washing, and twelve pounds a year,
For teaching the rustics to spell, and to read
The New England Primer, the Psalter, and Creed.
SPOKEN.

You must know, that I undertook to hammer a little learning through the calfskined pates of seventy or eighty square-toed, leather-headed numskulls. But after vainly trying the experiment at both ends of the patients, I lost my own patience, and my school into the bargain, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat with a whole skin; and this so forcibly reminded me of my musical scrape, that I struck up the old chorus of

Fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la; fa, sol, la, me;
Hop a twig, such a rig ought not to be.
19

I then became preacher without any call,
When a sweet village lass came to hear brother Paul;
And told her experience o'er with such grace,
That I gave the dear creature an ardent embrace.
SPOKEN.

There was the devil to pay, and poor I once more in the vocative. But I made my escape to the backwoods, singing my old Crispin ditty—

Make a death, cut a stick, high time I tramped,
Rise again, tick again, credit new vamped.
And now a physician, with cocked hat and wig,
I can feel ladies' pulses, look wise, and talk big;
With a fine ruffled shirt, and good coat to my back,
I pluck the poor geese, while the ducks exclaim quack!
SPOKEN.

“Oh, doctor, I am so glad you are come. I have such a consarned beating of the heart, that I can hardly draw my breath. Oh!”—“Let me see your tongue, miss.”—“My tongue! Law souls, doctor, what in the world has the tongue to do with the heart?”—“In general, miss, not much; but your case is an exception.”—“An exception! Oh, goody gracious! now you don't say so; is an exception a dangerous disorder, doctor?”—“Not at all dangerous, miss. An application of stramonium externally, and copious draughts of catnip tea internally, will soon restore you.” The lady's heart becomes composed, I pocket my fee, and make my exit, singing—

Feel the pulse, smell the cane, look at the tongue,
Touch the gold, praise the old, flatter the young.
20

TO BELINDA.

Oh, those eyes! but that right eye in particular!
Billy Lackaday.

Those auburn tresses sweetly play,
Around that pearly neck so fair,
And sweetly does that brow display
The clustering ringlets slumbering there.
Not sea-born Venus, famed of old,
With streaming locks, like threads of gold,
Sparkling with ocean's liquid brightness,
Could boast of graces so divine,
As those bewitching locks of thine,
Which shade thy forehead's sunny whiteness.
The softest shade of Tyrian dye,
Could never with that cheek compare;
Nor will the bright carnation vie
In color, with thy lip, my fair.
What though Cashmere's delightful vale,
With balmy odor freights the gale
At every fragrant feast of roses,
Its charms are here—why farther seek?
Its tints are blooming on thy cheek,
Its fragrance on thy lip reposes.
21

That lip, so like the bow of love,
In graceful curvature and hue,
And there 's a dimple just above,
A quiver for his arrows, too,
That sacred shrine of nameless charms,
That faultless shape, those graceful arms,
That peerless elegance of motion;
With richer beauties of the mind,
All—all, in one dear form combined,
May well inspire this heart's devotion.
But oh, that eye, that beaming eye,
Mild as the softest star of even,
Clear as the azure of the sky,
Bright as the vesper lamp of heaven!
Whence was that orb of beauty stole,
Whose matchless lustre, in my soul
Has lit a flame no power can smother!
“Which?” asked the fair—“I'm clear of theft—
These sixteen years I 've owned the left,
And pa paid Scudder for the other.”
22

THE FEMALE INVINCIBLES.

When Love's reveille summons matron and maid,
Julia Ann is the first to appear on parade;
Ever ready at roll-call, with weapon in hand,
To advance, wheel, and halt, at the word of command.
With a passing salute, and we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!
SPOKEN.

Attention, company!—Right, dress!—Support, arms!—By platoons, right wheel—Forward, guide left, march!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!
For conquest prepared, yet determined to yield,
Fair Therese and Sophia are the next in the field;
Where they gayly manœuvre their bright polished charms,
Waiting Hymen's command for presenting their arms.
With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!
SPOKEN.

Halt!—Ready!—Aim!—As you were!—By the right flank, file left!—march!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!
23

Well armed and equipped for a trial of skill,
Fair Eliza and Jane next appear at the drill;
Though reckless of danger, they'll face any man,
Yet their fire often proves but a flash in the pan.
With a passing salute as we march in review,
To the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!
SPOKEN.

On right, file into line!—Rear rank, open order, march!— Present, arms!—Carry, arms!—Close order!—Right face, march! —Recover, arms!

With a passing salute as we march in review,
With the rub-a-dub-dub and the rat-tat-too!

LIFE IN LONDON.

Oh, in London there's fun done, so gayly and daily,
There 's no one to blow one, you know, with a grace;
For treating, and eating, and smoking, and joking,
And drinking, and pinking, O London 's the place.
Such dancing and prancing, and milling and billing,
They scare away care away, are they not blest?
Such rambling and gambling, of sinners and winners,
Beginners make skinners as sharp as the best.
Oh, in London there 's fun done, &c.
24

In London, if undone, by fun done, and run down,
By bailiffs and califfs, with pitiless rage;
A debtor can better (by shunning their dunning,
With cunning or running) escape from the cage.
Oh, in London there 's fun done, &c.
Such jarring and sparring, with Charlies no parleys,
But mill away, kill away, as you 've been taught;
While squaring and swearing, the fancy we can see,
Delighting in fighting, for that is your sort.
Oh, in London, there 's fun done, &c.

LIFE IN CLOVER.

When cupid's dart first pierced my heart,
Jane Spinster was my darling,
Who kept for pets, two paroquettes,
A monkey, and a starling.
I asked the miss to grant a kiss,
But met a scoff, that drove me off,
And left the fair one snarling.
I next beset a young coquette,
For thirteen months or nearly,
Who played her part, with so much art,
I thought she loved me dearly.
25

But when, at last, her hand I asked,
She bade me know that such a beau,
Was what she wanted yearly.
A widow next my mind perplexed,
For half a year or over,
And like an ass, I hoped to pass
My days with her in clover;
I did, indeed, the fair agreed,
And named the day, then ran away
With Harry Blunt, the drover.
But hang the past, I'm fixed at last,
No more to be a ranger,
The knot is tied, and I 've a bride,
United past all danger.
Now who but I in clover lie,
The banquet 's mine, oh, how I'll dine,
No mastiff in the manger.

OH, WOMEN ARE ANGELS.

Oh, women are angels, in limbs,
In person, and manners, and features,
But what shall we say of the whims,
That govern these comical creatures?
26

By turns they will fondle and tease—
With what would you have me compare them?
Though buzzing and stinging like bees,
For the sake of the honey we bear them.
Yet women are angels, you see,
There's something so charming about them,
Whatever their oddities be,
Oh, we never could manage without them.
There are some that resemble ice-cream,
Which coldly forbids you to sip, sir;
But however frosty it seem,
It will melt with the warmth of your lip, sir.
While others, like counterfeit grapes,
The best imitations are hollow,
With beautiful colors and shapes,
But oh, they 're the devil to swallow.
Yet women are angels, &c.
What strange contradictions they show,
In matters of conjugal bliss, sir,
While frowning and crying “no, no!”
They wish you to take it for “yes, sir.”
Pursue, and how swift they will fly,
All panting with fears and alarms, sir,
Retreat—and I'll bet you my eye,
They'll pant, by-and-by, in your arms, sir.
Yet women are angels, &c.
27

HUNGER AND AN EMPTY PURSE;

OR, THE RUINED GAMBLER.

Needs must, when the devil's driver,
I must diddle, beg, or worse,
For I 've not a single stiver
To expel him from my purse.
Once in the infernal regions,
Ere I met with luck's reverse,
I could cleanly do the pigeons,
Till I neatly filled my purse.
Then among the swells and pippins,
Who could “play the devil” worse,
Till point “Non Plus” saw me tripping,
Not a penny in my purse.
Poverty, they say 's an evil,
Hunger, damme! that is worse,
Both together are the devil,
Hunger and an empty purse.
28

When I dream of feasting, raking,
Playing, winning—oh! the curse
Of still finding here on waking,
Hunger and an empty purse.
Though I run when bailiffs rout me,
Flying wont remove the curse,
Still I bear my hell about me,
Hunger and an empty purse.
Jane, of late—I 'd better staid off—
Treats me with neglect, or worse;
But, perhaps, the girls afraid of
Hunger and an empty purse.
When the parson prays for sinners,
He omits the deadliest curse—
“Save us from the want of dinners,
Hunger, and an empty purse.”
Doctors feel the pulse, we know, too,
Often when they should feel thus,
For we half our sickness owe to
Hunger and an empty purse.
While their patients make a die on 't,
Lawyers oft are doing worse,
Leaving many a hapless client
Hunger and an empty purse.
29

What but this infernal gnawing,
When our lotteries make a fuss,
Draws such crowds to see the drawing?
Hunger and an empty purse.
What 's the boasted inspiration,
That creates the poet's verse,
But the hope of compensation,
Hunger and an empty purse.
 

A gaming-house.

A FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION.

Where's Roberts, that red-headed fellow?
I wanted to give him a call, sir;
They told me down there in the cellar,
I 'd find him up here in the hall, sir.
I 've come from the country, you know,
For farming is my occupation;
To see what you city folks show
On a fourth of July celebration.
Umpti-uddity, &c.
To Hobok I rode in a wagon,
And sailed over the river in style, sir;
30

For the boat had a pole with a flag on,
And a big pot of water to boil, sir.
The stovepipe was smoking like fury,
An iron thing bobbed up and down, sir,
And all, just to make, I assure you,
A wheel in the water go round, sir.
We landed, at length, in your city,
Without the least morsel of dread, sir,
For I thought it a wonderful pity,
If I could n't find the Bull's Head, sir.
So I travelled right up to Broadway,
Where gridirons are laid out in the street, sir,
For wood is so scarce here, they say,
The sun has to boil all the meat, sir.
The people were thicker than mustard,
Each girl with her beautiful lips, sir,
Looked sweeter than honey or custard,
And smiled like a basket of chips, sir;
The windows were chuck full of gay things,
And boys in every shop, sir,
Were buying those little red playthings,
That cracked away pop-ity pop! sir.
The crowd it grew thicker and thicker,
Along by the Park iron fence, sir,
Where gingerbread, cherries, and liquor,
Were spread upon tables in tents, sir.
31

There was lobsters, and oysters, and clams,
Green pease, new potatoes, and gravy,
With pigs ready roasted, and hams,
Enough to provision the navy.
The Park was all crowded with people,
And so was the big City-Hall, sir,
Chuck full, from the steps to the steeple,
The gallery, windows, and all, sir.
They were waiting to see the procession,
And sure enough, after a while, sir
Mechanics of every profession,
Formed a line that extended a mile, sir.
And there was the veteran corps,
Each member an old seventy-sixer,
In the very same dress that he wore,
When he peppered John Bull for his tricks, sir.
Each man who had courage and pluck,
And boasted political stamina,
In his hat had the tail of a buck,
In honor of Mister St. Tammany.
And then came a beautiful ship,
I'm sorry I could n't get near her;
All handsomely rigged and equipped,
With a neat little fellow to steer her.
32

And there was a seven-foot Venus,
As big as the wife of a giant,
They said it was one Mrs. Genius,
I mean to ask Halleck or Bryant.
But don't let 's forget the brave fellows,
Whose things at a fire never fail, sir,
They work 'em all one like a bellows,
And every one spouts like a whale, sir.
All these, with a thousand more people,
Marched off, for their edification,
To a building without any steeple,
To hear Hooper Cumming's oration.
Then I heard such a fifing and drumming,
I axed the folks what was to pay, sir,
They told me the soldiers were coming,
All marching along in Broadway, sir.
And soon in the Park was paraded,
The strength of our city, I'll bet, sir,
With no other view, I'm persuaded,
But to honor the brave Lafayette, sir.
Then there was the famous balloon,
That travels ten miles in a minute,
Set out on a voyage to the moon,
With a parley vous Francois man in it;
33

Besides a boat-race on the water,
Where one of them travelled so fast, sir,
I wonder how t'other one caught her,
Without e'er a sail or a mast, sir.
So, having seen everything new,
I thought I would finish the day, sir,
By coming with Sally and Sue,
And Ichabod, here to the play, sir.
But if you should relish my song,
I'll make you another and bring it;
Much better, because not so long,
And red-headed Roberts shall sing it.
 

Sung by Mr. Roberts at the Chatham Theatre, in 1825, in the character of a country boy.

BARNEY BROOKE AND BETSEY BAKER.

“If ye have tears prepare to shed them now.”

Mr. Barney Brooke courted Betsey Baker,
She a pastry cook, he an undertaker;
Those who ate her tarts, pies, and sillabubs, sir,
Called her queen of hearts, at their festal clubs, sir.
Barney thus began, “Betsey, I adore you,
Before another man, take the man before you;
I 've a thriving trade, doctors are so plenty;
Graves must still be made—maids are grave at twenty.”
34

With a saucy look, quick she answered Barney:
“Mr. Barney Brooke, I will not brook your blarney;
I make pies and tarts; you 've a different trade, sir;
Shall the queen of hearts, take the jack of spades sir.”
He in silence sighed, while she stirred her batter,
“Speak!” at length she cried, “never mince the matter.”
Barney answered grave, while his brow was clouded,
“Grant the boon I crave, else my hopes are shrouded.”
Barney wooed in vain, Betsey mocked his passion,
Ridiculed his pain—jilting was the fashion;
The undertaker died, by sorrow overtaken;
Dr. Smoken tried, but could n't save his bacon.
Soon the pastry cook found her roses wilting,
Because she jilted Brooke, who could not brook her jilting;
Fast her health did waste, pies no more she heeded,
Nor could she knead her paste, although her paste was needed.
Twelve o'clock at night found the maid a weeping,
When an awful sight set her blood a creeping;
35

Hid beneath the rug, soon she heard this sentence:
“Bet, your grave is dug, spite of your repentance!”
Betty's spirit fled where it ought to go, sir,
Apes, they say, are led somewhere down below, sir.
Then, pastry cooks beware! Ne'er jilt an undertaker,
Or you may chance to share the fate of Betsey Baker.

THE RECONCILATION.

And did I leave her then in anger!
Resentment never touch her heart—
'T was agitation, sorrow, languor,
And I a wretch could thus depart!
Now, she 's in tears—her heart is broken!
And she will sigh, “He loves me not!
He left me with a frown! sad token
That misery will be my lot!”
Have I such merciless pangs inflicted,
On a fond heart that loves me so!
Have I on that sweet face depicted
The palid portraiture of wo!
36

I can not brook the thought! 't is horror!
No—I will fly and give her peace—
Kiss from her cheek the tear of sorrow,
And cause its agonies to cease.
“Emma, I come! your own Fitzharden—
Emma, look up, I love you still!
Nay, on my knees I beg your pardon;
Say you forgive me, or you kill!”
She hears! she smiles—that lip of ruby,
Will gently, tenderly reprove—
“Go to your work you silly booby!
Alas! what fools are men in love!”

THE LOVER AND THE ECHO.

LOVER.
Why am I doomed the pangs to prove
Of absence, from my Anna far?
What bars me from those lips of love,
Whose color rivals cinnabar?

ECHO.
A rival's sin, a bar.

37

LOVER.
Is she still faithful to the vow
She made at parting, breathed in sighs?
Loves she with equal fervor now?
Would I her heart could analyze!

ECHO.
Anna lies.

LOVER.
I 'd breathe my thoughts in amorous lay,
But, ah! I know not what to write;
For how can words those charms portray
Which might inflame an anchorite?

ECHO.
In flame and anger write.

LOVER.
I 've praised her oft, in tuneful feet,
Iambic, dactyl, and the rest,
But she, with smile and accent sweet,
Approved the lively anapest.

ECHO.
You proved the lively Ann a pest.

LOVER.
Oh, will she soon be joined to me,
Whom she has fixed affections eye on,
38

And I, like an engrafted tree,
Nourish the young and tender scion?

ECHO.
Young and tender, sigh on.

LOVER.
Oh, did she watch the rising moon,
Like me, with love and hope elated,
While listening to the cricket's tune,
Last Sunday evening, animated?

ECHO.
Last Sunday evening Anna mated.

LOVER.
I 've bought a ring with sparkling gem,
Emblem of love that ne'er can falter,
To grace her slender finger, when
Her vows are plighted by the altar.

ECHO.
Her vows are plighted—buy the halter!

39

THE REPULSE.

When first I sought my Lydia's love,
I talked of flames and rapture;
And with unceasing ardor strove
Her gentle heart to capture.
“I'll quit the world if I'm denied!”
I said without reflection;
“If you think best,” the fair replied,
“I 've not the least objection.”
“Hard-hearted girl! for your embrace,
To dastard fear a stranger,
Arabia's desert sands I'll trace,
And laugh at every danger;
Or scale the Andes' steepest side,
To merit your affection!”
“As you think best,” she still replied,
“I 've not the least objection.”
“Can nothing move you? is he doomed
To years of gloom and sorrow,
Who fondly thought you would have bloomed
His lovely bride to-morrow?
40

My family, with joy and pride,
Expect the blest connection.”
“As you think best,” she smiling cried,
I 've not the least objection.”

TIT FOR TAT;

OR, THE COQUETTE PUNISHED.

Ellen was fair, and knew it too,
As other village beauties do,
Whose mirrors never lie;
Secure of any swain she chose,
She smiles on half a dozen beaux,
And, reckless of a lover's woes,
She cheated these, and taunted those;
“For how could any one suppose;
A clown could take her eye?”
But whispers through the village ran,
That Edgar was the happy man
The maid designed to bless;
For wheresoever moved the fair,
The youth was, like her shadow, there,
And rumor boldly matched the pair,
For village folks will guess.
41

Edgar did love, but still delayed
To make confession to the maid,
So bashful was the youth;
But let the flame in secret burn,
Certain of meeting a return,
When, from his lips, the fair should learn,
Officially, the truth.
At length, one morn, to taste the air,
The youth and maid, in one-horse chair,
A long excursion took.
Edgar had nerved his bashful heart
The sweet confession to impart,
For ah! suspense had caused a smart
He could no longer brook.
He drove, nor slackened once his reins,
Till Hempstead's wide extended plains
Seemed joined to skies above;
Nor house, nor tree, nor shrub was near,
The rude and dreary scene to cheer,
Nor soul within ten miles to hear—
And still poor Edgar's silly fear
Forbade to speak of love.
At last, one desperate effort broke
The bashful spell, and Edgar spoke
With most persuasive tone;
42

Recounted past attendance o'er,
And then, by all that 's lovely, swore
That he would love for evermore,
If she 'd become his own.
The maid in silence heard his prayer,
Then, with a most provoking air,
She tittered in his face;
And said, “'T is time for you to know
A lively girl must have a beau,
Just like a reticule—for show;
And at her nod to come and go—
But he should know his place.
Your penetration must be dull,
To let a hope within your skull
Of matrimony spring.
Your wife! ha, ha! upon my word,
The thought is laughably absurd
As anything I ever heard—
I never dreamed of such a thing.”
The lover sudden dropped his rein,
Now on the centre of the plain—
“The linchpin's out!” he cried;
“Be pleased, one moment to alight,
Till I can set the matter right,
That we may safely ride.”
43

He said, and hand out the fair—
Then laughing, cracked his whip in air,
And wheeling round his horse and chair
Exclaimed, “Adieu, I leave you there
In solitude to roam.”
“What mean you, sir!” the maiden cried,
“Did you invite me out to ride
To leave me here without a guide?
Nay, stop, and take me home.”
“What! take you home?” exclaimed the beau,
“Indeed, my dear, I 'd like to know
How such a hopeless wish could grow,
Or in your bosom spring?
Take Ellen home! upon my word,
The thought 's as laughably absurd
As anything I ever heard—
I never dreamed of such a thing.”

PRINTER, FOOL ENOUGH.

Printer—fool enough,
Puffs the folks so funny;
He does all the puff,
They get all the money!
44

THE WHISKERS.

The kings, who rule mankind with haughty sway,
The prouder pope, whom even kings obey—
Love, at whose shrine both popes and monarchs fall,
And e'en self-interest, that controls them all—
Possess a petty power, when all combined,
Compared with fashion's influence on mankind;
For love itself will oft to fashion bow,
The following story will convince you how:—
A petit maitre wooed a fair,
Of virtue, wealth, and graces rare;
But vainly had preferred his claim,
The maiden owned no answering flame;
At length, by doubt and anguish torn,
Suspense, too painful to be borne,
Low at her feet he humbly kneeled,
And thus his ardent flame revealed:—
“Pity my grief, angelic fair,
Behold my anguish and despair;
For you this heart must ever burn—
Oh, bless me with a kind return;
45

My love no language can express,
Reward it then with happiness;
Nothing on earth but you I prize,
All else is trifling in my eyes;
And cheerfully would I resign
The wealth of worlds, to call you mine.
But, if another gain your hand,
Far distant from my native land,
Far hence, from you and hope, I'll fly,
And in some foreign region die.”
The virgin heard, and thus replied:—
“If my consent to be your bride
Will make you happy, then be blest,
But grant me first one small request;
A sacrifice I must demand,
And in return will give my hand.”
“A sacrifice! Oh, speak its name,
For you I 'd forfeit wealth and fame;
Take my whole fortune—every cent—”
“'Twas something more than wealth I meant.”
“Must I the realms of Neptune trace?
Oh, speak the word—where'er the place,
For you the idol of my soul,
I 'd e'en explore the frozen pole;
Arabia's sandy desert tread,
Or trace the Tigris to its head.”
46

“Oh no, dear sir, I do not ask
So long a voyage, so great a task;
You must—but ah! the boon I want,
I have no hope that you will grant.”
“Shall I, like Bonaparte, aspire
To be the world's imperial sire?
Express the wish, and here I vow,
To place a crown upon your brow.”
“Sir, these are trifles,” she replied;
“But if you wish me for your bride,
You must—but still I fear to speak—
You'll never grant the boon I seek.”
“Oh say!” he cried, “dear angel say—
What I must do, and I obey;
No longer rack me with suspense,
Speak your commands, and send me hence.”
“Well, then, dear, generous youth!” she cries,
“If thus my heart you really prize,
And wish to link your fate with mine,
On one condition I am thine;
'T will then become my pleasing duty,
To contemplate a husband's beauty;
47

And gazing on his manly face,
His feelings and his wishes trace;
To banish thence each mark of care,
And light a smile of pleasure there.
Oh, let me then, 't is all I ask,
Commence at once the pleasing task;
Oh, let me, as becomes my place,
Cut those huge whiskers from your face.”
She said—but oh, what strange surprise
Was pictured in her lover's eyes!
Like lightning from the ground he sprung,
While wild amazement tied his tongue;
A statue, motionless, he gazed,
Astonished, horror-struck, amazed!
So looked the gallant Perseus, when
Medusa 's visage met his ken;
So looked Macbeth, whose guilty eye
Discerned an “air-drawn dagger” nigh;
And so the prince of Denmark stared,
When first his father's ghost appeared.
At length our hero silence broke,
And thus in wildest accents spoke:
“Cut off my whiskers! oh, ye gods
I 'd sooner lose my ears, by odds;
Madam, I 'd not be so disgraced,
So lost to fashion and to taste,
48

To win an empress to my arms,
Though blest with more than mortal charms.
My whiskers! Zounds!” He said no more,
But quick retreated through the door
And sought a less obdurate fair,
Who took the beau with all his hair.

THE EXPERT FRISEUR.

The other day, a certain beau,
Before he could a courting go,
Must needs be dressed; so off he flew
To the first shop that met his view.
“Come, barber,” he exclaims in haste,
“Display for once a little taste;
Exert your powers, and do n't be stupid,
But make me pretty as a Cupid.
Consult my visage now with care,
And to my looks adapt my hair.”
The man, a master of his trade,
His best abilities displayed;
And Cupid from his chair arose,
A finished beauty—we suppose;
Approached the glass, his visage spied,
Then turning to the barber, cried—
“Is this your boasted taste?—for shame!
Such dressing do n't deserve the name;
49

My head, with all these curls and plaster,
Looks like the very devil, master.”
The barber, in a humble tone,
Replied, “Dear sir, the fault 's your own,
You bade me view your face with care,
And to your looks adapt your hair.”

RAISING THE WIND.

It's ever been the study of mankind,
In every station, how to raise the wind;
And who attempts it with the least address,
Is oft rewarded with the most success;
As many a novice, by a lucky throw,
Has foiled the science of a veteran foe.
Raising the wind, however, I'll engage,
Is not confined to climate, sex, or age;
But is, in fact, the universal trade,
Of infant, parent, widow, wife, and maid.
Young master Fretful, spoiled by fond mamma,
Espies a treasure in the sweetmeat jar;
And, if refused to taste the luscious store,
Tunes up his pipes to a melodious roar.
50

“Give him a rod!” the angry father cries;
“Nay, nay! my dear!” the tender spouse replies,
“You'll break poor Jacky's heart, or spoil his eyes;
'T is hard to cross so innocent a wish—
Here, Jacky, take some, on this china dish;
Here, deary, wipe your eyes—papa 's unkind”—
Jack smiles again—for he has raised the wind.
Tom Rustic throws the hoe indignant down,
Assumes his Sunday suit, and comes to town,
Obtains employment in a dry-goods store,
And soon forgets whate'er he know before:
Commences dandy in his dress and air,
And learns to smoke and gamble, drink and swear;
Transformed in manners, dialect, and feature,
Till his own parents scarcely know the creature.
“I say—Ned—demme—where was you last night?
We 'd fun enough at Cato's—blame me tight!
I bilked the driver, too—ha, ha! keep dark,
Poor yellow Billy, down there by the Park:
You know that Hudson note—well, do n't you think,
The fellow took it—gave the change in chink;
The rascal certainly was drunk or blind,
But, ha! ha! ha! egad, I raised the wind.”
51

Sir Richard Rake, once lord of boundless wealth,
A bankrupt now, in fortune, fame, and health,
Becomes enamored of the widow Dash,
Possessed of many thousand charms—in cash;
His passion knows no bounds—he kneels and sighs,
While his whole soul is beaming from his eyes.
“Divine, angelic creature! Here I vow,
This bosom never glowed with love till now;
Oh, then, be kind, and grant my ardent prayer,
Nor doom a faithful lover to despair!
Your matchless charms”—
“Oh, fie! Sir Richard, hush!
Such high-flown praises really make me blush;
Fled are the trifling charms which once were mine,
Though, to be sure, I'm only thirty—nine.”
“Nay, hear me, dearest madame—though I prize,
Above all earthly good, those beauteous eyes!
It is your mental charms that touch my heart,
That cultivated mind, that heavenly part,
So high above the reach of flattery's art.”
“And do you really think so?” “Shall I swear?”
“Oh, no, I would not drive you to despair—
There—there 's my hand—I can not be unkind.”
'T is thus our fortune-hunters raise the wind.
52

But time would fail me, and your patience too,
Should I this boundless subject thus pursue,
And show the various arts by which mankind,
Of every grade, contrive to raise the wind.
The quack effects it, when and where he pleases,
By advertising cures for all diseases;
The politician gives his friends a lift,
Then takes the fattest office in their gift.
The Wall-street broker shaves you in a note,
The humble showman, with a learned goat.
A more adventurous soul will raise a breeze
By seal-clad natives brought from over seas;
While lottery-venders, thinking fortune blind,
Assume her functions, and so raise the wind.
Not so your humble servant, whose sole wish
Was to prepare an intellectual dish
To treat his friends—and if he can not raise
A gale of approbation in his praise,
Yet still he hopes his well-intended toils,
Will meet the gentler sunshine of your smiles.
53

THE FIRST OF MAY;

OR, THE CITY OF NEW YORK IN AN UPROAR.

The curtain rises, and the play begins—
Here at the corner, screened by oaken post,
The muse shall take her stand, and view the scene.
At every door, behold the ready cart
Receive its cumbrous load; the horse throws round
A glance of meek compassion, which to me
Speaks in a language, plain as brutes can speak,
“What a poor fool is man!” His driver swears,
Wives scold, dogs bark, cats mew, and children cry,
Pots break, chairs crack, pans ring, and jarring notes,
Of harshest discord, rise on every side.
There goes a matron with her looking-glass,
A legacy from mother to her child
For several generations, and she'll trust
None to remove it but her careful self.
But better had she stowed it on the cart
Where all her baggage rides; for fate has doomed,
(By sudden contact with a porter's load)
To dash the sacred treasure from her hand
54

On the unchristian pavements, where she views
Here scattered hopes in rude disorder spread,
Reflecting houses, passengers, and skies.
Here a full barrow, piled with feather-beds,
Pushed by a sturdy porter, runs you down,
Ere you can shun the danger; yonder goes
The sweating bearer of a precious load,
Baskets of chinaware, and sweetmeat jars,
And the cold relics of some late repast.
And here a lumbering cart moves slowly on,
Piled high with bureaus, bedsteads, tables, desks,
Chairs, cradle, rubbish, washtubs, kittles, pots,
Old empty barrels, benches, trammels, pans,
The fire-utensils, carpet-rags, old books,
And musty pamphlets, oil jugs, bottles, frames,
Mats, brooms, Dutch-oven, gridirons, griddles, jacks,
Trunks, piggins, toasters, pickle-pots, and all.

EPIGRAM,

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. GOLDFINCH TO MISS WEED.

A Goldfinch late in search of seeds,
Explored a rural bower,
And found, amongst luxuriant weeds,
A little, modest flower.
55

POETICAL EPISTLE.

FROM A YOUNG LADY IN NEW YORK TO HER COUSIN IN DETROIT.

Sweet Coz! as brother calls you—oh
I wish we had you in the city.
When he was here, some time ago,
He told me, puss, that you were pretty!
And I have never seen you yet!
No matter—for the winter 's flying,
And pa has promised—I'm his pet—
We'll come when summer gales are sighing.
But still, I wish we had you here,
I 've such delightful news to tell you!
My heart is gone, dear coz! oh, dear!
Has ever such a thing befell you?
I hope your box came safe to hand,
With pelerine, lace veil, and corsets,
Cornelian ear-rings, breastpin—and
A chain and seal like Emma D---t's.
Your ma's new cap—I hope it suits—
Tell her it was by me selected,
56

As was the pair of gaiter-boots—
Heigh-ho! my spirits feel dejected!
I told you that my heart was lost—
Perhaps 't is but the blues oppress me;
For though I'm pleased with Major F---t,
He wants the courage to address me.
I saw him first, at Grand-Val's ball,
I met him afterward at Parker's;
But, oh! at Conway's concert hall—
He waited on the Misses B---rs!
The one a pug-nosed, short old maid,
The other, tall, slim, lean, and yellow!
They stumbled through the gallopade—
I felt so vexed!—the stupid fellow!
Though introduced, we had not yet
Exchanged a dozen words together,
Excepting something, I forget,
About the opera and weather.
As partners in the gallopade,
You know, of course, we often parted:
Nor cared we how the music played,
But always met just where we started.
His voice is manly, sweet, and clear,
With tones most musically tender:
His shape—Apollo Belvidere
Is not so exquisitely slender.
57

And then he 's brave as Cæsar, too,
Or Alexander, or Hephestion;
Oh, coz! what could I say or do,
If he should only pop the question?
His manners are so mild and bland,
Though once, 't is said, he fought a duel;
He whispered something—pressed my hand—
Would you advise me to be cruel?
Of course, you know I answered not,
For ma says I'm too young to marry;
I blushed—looked down—I do n't know what
I might have said—His name is Harry.
He makes up parties when he can,
Of course 't is when I know the misses;
They 're on the old New England plan—
But pa denounces pawns and kisses;
Though we suspect he liked them once—
But mum! mamma has no suspicion;
Aunt says he was not thought a dunce,
When beaux were once in requisition.
But let that pass—he 's older now;
In June next I am one-and-twenty!
You never saw so sweet a bow
As Harry's—though you 've seen a plenty.
58

His hair is brown, his whiskers dark,
His ringlets round his temples cluster;
His eyes you could not fail to mark,
They shine with such a dazzling lustre.
And then he writes such poetry!
You must have read it in the Mirror—
“To Miss H. M.”—and that means me,
For think you there is any dearer?
And such conundrums!—he 's the life
Of all our social evening revels;
Oh! when I once become his wife,
Adieu to vapors and blue-devils!
I saw him in the grand parade,
Curbing a milk-white, prancing charger,
With sash and epaulets displayed—
I wished his chapeau-bras was larger.
He marched his troops down East Broadway,
I saw them from the doctor's window,
And caught his eye—that single ray
Had almost made my heart a cinder!
Adieu, sweet coz—I'll let you know,
When we have fixed the day to marry;
And may you get as sweet a beau
As Major F---t, my charming Harry.
59

When Cupid aims his feathered dart,
I hope no obstacle will parry it;
Such wounds are grateful to the heart—
So I remain your cousin—Harriet.
P. S.
Alas! dear coz, my hopes are crossed!
My late bright prospects now are darker,
For pa just told me Major F---t
Last evening married Ellen B---er;
And that they 've been for years attached,
The tall, slim, gawky! lean and yellow!—
But never mind—they 're quite well matched—
I never could endure the fellow!—H. M.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING EPISTLE.

Dear Harriet—Yours of twentieth Jan.
Has been received and read with pleasure;
And rest assured, your cousin Ann
Is highly grateful for the treasure.
But we were not prepared to hear
That you could be so deeply smitten;
But in a New York atmosphere,
We trust you have not been Frost-bitten!
60

My prospects have not yet been crossed
In such a way as late befell you;
Though we have here one General Frost,
Who sometimes is too rude, I tell you.
He'll pinch your fingers till they smart,
And even pull your ears a little;
But then he can not touch the heart;
His promises are all so brittle.
But lovers, coz, alas! I 've none!
And I should like to pay a visit
To your great city, I must own,
And that is not surprising—is it!
For, oh! your colonels, majors, and
Subalterns of a rank inferior,
Enlist recruits, I understand,
Which they do n't do in the interior.
I 'd like to be a colonel's aid,
Provided he 's a man of spirit,
Without the shadow of a shade
To cloud his virtues, worth, and merit.
At playhouse, opera, or ball,
He 'd be a suitable protector;
But there 's a street of yours named Wall—
How would you like a bank director?
But let that pass—I 've heard so much
About your prima-donna, Fanti,
61

And Mrs. Wood, whose tones can touch
The soul, in presto or andante;
Of Fanny Kemble—routs and balls,
Soiries, and jams, and private parties;
Of new-imported hats and shawls—
'T is easy telling where my heart is.
I long to see your Forrest act,
Your Irish Power, and native Hackett,
And old friend Barnes, who is, in fact,
The greatest wag that wears a jacket.
Your authors, too, I wish to see—
At least, a few of the deserving,
Who shine in prose and poetry,
Like Paulding, Bryant, Cooper, Irving.
The fashions for the coming spring—
Please send some drawings that will show them;
And write me word by Mr. K---g,
That I may be the first to know them.
Black stocks, I hope the beaux will cast,
And put on white cravats this season;
For ma says stocks decline so fast,
They're under par!—now what's the reason?
With you, next May, 'mid dust and smoke,
'T will be the fashion to be moving!
But we are free from such a yoke—
How fast the Mirror is improving!
62

The last plate-number, which contained
Your private letter (what a pity!)
Has everywhere applause obtained,
In hamlet, village, town, and city.
The plate presents a peerless view,
And is most exquisitely finished;
Verplanck's descriptive sketch is new,
And Paulding's fire is not diminished.
I hugely like the sketch by Power,
The tale of Leggett is alarming;
The Serenade's a lovely flower,
And sweet Ninetta's air is charming.
Has tuneful Wetmore cease to write?
Is Morris still the muses moving?
Who 's Peregrine, that crying wight?
And what are Fay and Willis doing?
And what the deuse is Cox about?
Is Broadway getting gay so early?
You saw Miss Cooper play, no doubt—
Pa knew her grandsire, Major Fairley.
What is the latest novel called,
Just stereotyped by Cooke and Conner?
Is Major Frost a little bald?
Now tell me, truly, coz, 'pon honor!
Is Noah successful with his Star?
Is Halleck married, to your knowledge?
63

Have you rode in the railway car?
Or seen the new-established college?
And so, no more at present, coz,
But do n't let Morris print this letter,
I beg of you—for if he does,
I'll punish you as an abetter.
Besides, there are some secrets in't,
As you perceive—so, be admonish;
For if it should appear in print,
The folks up here would be astonished.—
Ann H.
POSTSCRIPT.
Desipere est dulce! cries
The philosophic, tuneful Horace—
So, though the act may not be wise,
You may just drop a hint to Morris,
That, if he'll leave out place and name,
And make the verses jingle better,
I should not think him much to blame,
Were he to publish such a letter.—
A. H.
64

A CHARADE AND SOLUTION.

My first is a vehicle, such as oft bore
To battle the chivalrous heroes of yore;
'Tis the wicker-wove gondola, too, that will bear,
The fearless Durant yet again in the air.
My second is often by beauty caressed,
Its cradle her lap, and its pillow her breast;
With the choicest of food by her hand it is fed,
And it even presumes to repose on her bed.
My whole is the pride both of matron and maid,
Who guard me with care, lest my beauties should fade;
But though they affect such affection to feel,
They grude me the crumbs that may fall from their meal;
The servants are suffered with rudeness to treat me,
To trample upon me, to shake me, and beat me;
Then pray, gentle ladies, in country or city,
If you know what I am, let me hope for your pity.
SOLUTION.
The swift war-chariot, was, of yore,
Yclept a car, and often bore
Some god, or chief, or princely knight,
To meet the foe in desperate fight.
65

And 't is a car that soon will bear,
Durant again through fields of air!
No fair but on some pet has smiled,
A lapdog, kitten, lamb, or child;
No fair but clasps one to her breast,
Or takes it to her couch of rest.
A happy union of these two,
A car and pet presents to view,
The meaning of a late charade,
Guard well its beauties, lest they fade.

A SONNET ON SONNETS.

When memory takes a retrospective gaze
Upon the bright effusions of my brain,
She can not find—I note the fact with pain—
'Mid all that heterogeneous mass of lays,
A single Sonnet! This might blight a fame
Greater—if greater can be—than the one
Which now reward the muses' favorite son—
I mean myself—and gilds his deathless name.
This must not be, and so I'll write one now.
Let's see; it must comprise just fourteen lines,
Dull, flat, and heavy; this at least combines
The requisites alluded to, I trow!
Two more complete it; now the bard entwines
The ne plus ultra garland round his laurelled brow!
66

ELEGIAC LINES.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY, ON THE DEATH OF HER FAVORITE KITTEN.

[A JUVENILE PRODUCTION.]

Shall sculptured blocks and columns rise,
In memory of the worthless great,
And nought but tears, regrets, and sighs,
Declare the humbler victim's fate?
Forbid it, Justice! while my muse
Will not deny her friendly aid;
To Sylvia's though abstruse,
Shall due respect and praise be paid.
How pure her life! without a blot
To stain her bright, untarnished fame!
Though low, obscure, and mean her lot,
Yet long shall live her humble name.
How oft her sportive tricks and plays
Have pleased, amused, and banished care!
How oft her little winning ways
Have gained caresses from the fair!
67

How rich and envied the reward,
For all her little arts to please!
Here lovely mistress' kind regard,
Tenfold repaid such toils as these.
Who would not envy her, so blest—
Accept her fate her bliss to gain?
Kissed by those lips—pressed to that breast,
Which thousands sigh to touch in vain.
But, ah! her sports and plays are done!
Those harmless pastimes all are fled!
The tricks which those caresses won,
Amuse no more!—poor Sylvia's dead!

EPIGRAM.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. H. LOCKE TO MISS STORMS.

What daring feats the ardent youth performs,
Who bares his bosoms to resistless Storms;
And, like the fabled heathen god, who chained
And in a cave the warring winds restrained,
So Henry bids the very name to cease;
Secured by Locke the Storms now smile in peace.
68

TIME'S AUCTION.

A NEW-YEAR'S POEM, ADDRESSED TO A LADY.

'T was near that “witching time of night,”
When spectres walk, and poets write;
The play was out, the shops were closed,
And all the laboring world reposed;
The waning moon was yet asleep,
Or had not risen from the deep;
When, in my elbow-chair reclined,
Thy form, fair lady, crossed my mind,
And I resolved to frame a lay,
Addressed to you, on New-Year's day:
But strove in vain—for every Muse
Appeared determined to refuse
The smallest favor I could ask—
And I resigned the hopeless task;
Sank backward in my crazy chair,
The haggard picture of despair!
When, suddenly, my vision failed!
And such a sound my ears assailed,
As filled my trembling heart with dread,
And shook the rafters o'er my head!
69

('T is true, just then, I can't deny,
Four hackney-coaches thundered by;)
Grimalkin gave a dreadful scream!
(She might have had a frightful dream;)
And Pug emitted such a groan,
As if some cur had stole his bone!
I felt my creeping blood recoil!
The lamp burnt blue!—(it wanted oil;)
My bristling hair now stood erect!
(For lack of combing, I suspect;)
My eye-balls, in their sockets, glared!
A certain sign that I was scared!
I listened, still, in breathless dread,
To hear the slow and heavy tread
Of some ascending footstep near,
Which fell like lead upon my ear!
Nor listened long—my garret door,
Which has been safely latched before,
Without a touch, wide open flew!
And what a spectre met my view!
An old, decrepid sage appeared,
With hollow cheek, and snowy beard;
A wrinkled forehead, soaring high
Above a deeply-sunken eye;
With head quite bald, except before,
Where one long silver lock he wore;
One arm a ponderous scythe sustained,
70

One hand an hour-glass, almost drained,
In which the sand was wasting fast—
(The recent year was almost past;)
'T was father Time—I knew him well,
And hailed him welcome to my cell;
Intreating him awhile to stop,
To warm his hands, and take a drop.
“Time never stops!” he hoarsely cried,
“For no one tarries time nor tide!
Though all abuse me as I pass,
And strive to break my scythe and glass;
Though all misuse and treat me ill,
Yet I keep jogging forward still.
But having ever met from you
That courtesy, to old age due,
Which you are exercising NOW,
(I smiled, and made my prettiest bow,)
I felt inclined, in passing by,
To let you know the reason why
The Muses came not at your call—
They're going to the New-Year's ball!
And as, at such an hour, you know,
'T is requisite to have a beau;
Of course, it naturally will follow,
That their gallant is gay Apollo.
No wonder, then, that you, in vain,
Have summoned this Parnassian train;
71

For let the fair but scent a ball,
And all, but Death, may vainly call.
“But fare you well! I can not stay,
For ere these sands have run away,
The custom-house of Heaven will clear
An out-bound ship—the good Old-Year.
And there 's another one, I learn,
Belonging to the same concern,
Full freighted, just come in from sea,
Arrived below, consigned to me;
And ere the hour of twelve be tolled,
Her precious cargo must be sold;
Comprising minutes, hours, and days,
And other goods above all praise;
Put up in lots, as each prefers,
To suit all sorts of purchasers,
A day, a week, a month, or year,
And I must play the Auctioneer.
Come with me, and attend the sale,
'T will serve you for a New-Year's tale.
No sooner had the spectre spoke,
Than quick I seized my hat and cloak,
And sallied forth, with hope inspired.
The citizens had all retired,
One “guardian of the night” except,
Who on a stoop securely slept.
72

My sage companion tottered on,
Exclaiming—“Going!—going!—gone!
A Year, in months, or weeks, for sale!
Who bids for part, or all the bale!
What for an hour?—or twenty-four?
With privilege of taking more!
Who bids!—the sale 's without reserve,
And none must from the contract swerve.”
“Put up,” exclaimed a bright-winged elf,
“Each moonlight evening by itself;
The summer ones so much I prize,
I'll bid a thousand tender sighs.”
“Once! twice! a-going!—who bids more?”
Grief added to the sum a score,
With twenty thousand tears beside.
Philosophy stepped up with pride,
And offered for each cloudless night
Twelve problems, which he—meant to write!
Poor Poetry approached the scene,
With threadbare coat, and pensive mein,
A brimful heart, and empty purse,
And bid two thousand feet of—verse!
Old Time, who took the wink from me,
Knocked down the lot to Poetry,
Who would no article remove,
Till he had shared the whole with Love!
73

Another lot, of darker hue,
The salesman next held up to view,
Exclaiming, as he shook his glass—
“Here 's goods of quite a different class;
A lot of nights, in cloudy weather,
Who bids?—the whole must go together;
For fireworks and illuminations,
And various other ‘demonstrations,’
This kinds of goods is just the thing;
Who bids!—they'll go for what they'll bring.”
A host of fiends approached the spot,
Each eager to secure the lot:
Sly crafty Fraud, mean Breach-of-trust,
Intemperance, Murder, Theft, and Lust,
And every imp of Heaven accursed.
Such rapid bids from crime and vice,
Secured the goods a heavy price;
And ere the buyers left the spot,
They all agreed to share the lot.
The crowd increased; the sage, perplext,
Put up a lot of week-days next;
Industry bid, but Speculation
Outbid him without hesitation,
Until they run the lot so high,
That all the rest refused to buy;
The auctioneer to dwell was loth,
So knocked the package down to both.
74

The Sundays only now remained,
For which fair bids were soon obtained;
Pleasure and Indolence expected
To have the pleasant ones selected
For them alone—to take the best,
And leave Religion all the rest.
But Time to this would not agree,
So knocked them down to Piety;
Exclaiming, “Going!—going!!—gone!!!”
The clock struck twelve!—'twas New-Year's morn!
Aroused by poor grimalkin's scream,
I woke, and found 't was all a—dream!
But, lady, should my dream prove true,
And Time have sold such goods to you,
May every bale, and lot, and piece,
Your capital of bliss increase,
While you deposite the avails
In heaven, a bank that never fails.
And when the great account, at last,
Is posted, and correctly cast,
The balance-sheet will clearly prove
That you 've eternal funds above.
Till then, may pleasure crown you here,
For many a New and Happy Year.
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