Part 25 (1/2)

In the Towns.h.i.+p of Nissouri, There the hawk it came to sorrow, But it strove often for to sink, In vain it strove to drown the mink,

But mink it did successful balk, All the attacks were made by hawk, The bird was drenched, it could not fly, And ne'er again it soared on high.

LINES WRITTEN IN A MENTAL ALb.u.m.

Where each one expressed some sentiment.

In this alb.u.m you may trace, If not the lineaments of face, There at least you will find Photographs of the mind.

Some in earnest some in fun, Some do lecture some do pun, Here the maiden and the youth, Each proclaim some precious truth.

And there is here some fine pages, Written by maturer ages, Where they show that time is brief, That soon comes sere and yellow leaf.

EVERY ROSE HATH ITS THORN.

There was a maiden all forlorn, She loved a youth, his name was Thorn, But he was shy for to disclose How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

l.u.s.tre sweet it would give to Thorn, If this fair flower would it adorn, Said he all other names above Your charming name alone I love.

Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn, Unless that it is joined to Thorn, It very soon doth droop and die, And she heaved a gentle sigh.

Said he we'll wed to-morrow morn, No more from me you shall be torn, For you will banish all my woes, And near my heart I'll wear the rose.

Now little rose buds they are born, All clinging to the parent Thorn, In grace and beauty each one grows, Full worthy of the sweet May Rose.

Some flowers they only shed their bloom In the sweet month of leafy June, But May doth bloom each month in year A fragrant Rose forever dear.

DANGER OF FIRE ARMS.

For to save life one great solver Would be to prohibit the revolver, Weapon of coward and of bully, Who slaughter friends in their folly.

Let now no man or any boy, With loaded arms ever toy, Showing off their manly vigor, Pointing to friend and pulling trigger.

And sending bullet through their brain, And then exclaim in mournful strain, When friends with grief they are goaded, I did not know that it was loaded.

Fire arms oft' times do bring woes, And they kill more friends than foes, Hunting now o'er fertile fields, 'Tis seldom that it profit yields.