Part 81 (1/2)

How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, ”Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan.

”You've only got to curtsy, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? O there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

_James Smith._

[Footnote 1: ”The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his _Alice Fell_, and the greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation.”--_Edinburg Review._]

THE CANTELOPE

Side by side in the crowded streets, Amid its ebb and flow, We walked together one autumn morn; ('Twas many years ago!)

The markets blushed with fruits and flowers; (Both Memory and Hope!) You stopped and bought me at the stall, A spicy cantelope.

We drained together its honeyed wine, We cast the seeds away; I slipped and fell on the moony rinds, And you took me home on a dray!

The honeyed wine of your love is drained; I limp from the fall I had; The snow-flakes m.u.f.fle the empty stall, And everything is sad.

The sky is an inkstand, upside down, It splashes the world with gloom; The earth is full of skeleton bones, And the sea is a wobbling tomb!

_Bayard Taylor._

POPULAR BALLAD: ”NEVER FORGET YOUR PARENTS”

A young man once was sitting Within a swell cafe, The music it was playing sweet-- The people was quite gay.

But he alone was silent, A tear was in his eye-- A waitress she stepped up to him, and Asked him gently why.

(Change to Minor)

He turned to her in sorrow and At first he spoke no word, But soon he spoke unto her, for She was an honest girl.

He rose up from the table In that elegant cafe, And in a voice replete with tears To her he then did say:

CHORUS

Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true, If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.

A hush fell on the laughing throng, It made them feel quite bad, For most of them was people, and Some parents they had had.

Both men and ladies did shed tears.