3. No, thank ye, sir-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral— Aren't we, Roger? See him wink!

Well, something hot, then-we wont quarrel. He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head! What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said— And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

4. The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

5. There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

6. We'll have some music if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight!

Put up that paw!

'Bout face! Salute your officer!

Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

7. March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.

Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps-that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!
Quick, sir! I'm ill-my brain is going!
Some brandy-thank you-there-it passes!

8. Why not reform! That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

9. Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love-but I took to drink;
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If
you
could have seen these classic features-
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:

I was one of your handsome men!

10. If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs we sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

11. She's married since-a parson's wife:

'Twas better for her that we should part

Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
Have I seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On a dusty road: a carriage stopped;

But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

12. You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before- Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

13. Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were—
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

14. I'm better now; that glass was warming. You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;— The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

The Bells.

EDGAR A. POE.

1. Hear the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

2. Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells
Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle dove that listens while she gloats
On the moon!

O, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

3. Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune.

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

O the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging
And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows:

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,

Of the bells

Bells, bells, bells

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

4. Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone

They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,