Mixing no more with sober men,

He found his morals fleeing;
And being of a jovial turn,
He turned a jovial being.

With governor and constable
His cash he freely spends ;
From constable to governor,

He had a host of friends.

Or is it necessary

But soon he found he could not take,
As his old father would,
A little spirits, just enough
To do his spirits good.

In councils with the patriots
Upon affairs of State,

Setting no bars to drinking, he
Soon lost his upright gait..

His brandy straightway made him walk

In very crooked ways ;

While lager beer brought to his view
A bier and span of grays.

The nips kept nipping at his purse-
(Two bits for every dram),

While clear champagne produced in him
A pain that was no sham.

His cups of wine were followed by
The doctor's painful cup;

Each morning found him getting low

As he was getting up.

Thus uselessly, and feebly did

His short existence flit,

Till in a drunken fight he fell Into a drunken fit.

The doctors came, but here their skill

They found of no avail;

They all agreed, what ailed poor Tom Was politics and ale.

L. F. WELLS.

IS IT ANYBODY'S BUSINESS?

'S it anybody's business,

If a gentleman should choose

To wait upon a lady,

If the lady don't refuse?

Or, to speak a little plainer,

That the meaning all may know,

Is it anybody's business

If a lady has a beau?

Is it anybody's business

When that gentleman doth call,

Or when he leaves the lady,
Or if he leaves at all?

a

That the curtain should be drawn, To save from further trouble

The outside lookers-on ?

Is it anybody's business,

But the lady's, if her beau Rideth out with other ladies, And does n't let her know? Is it anybody's business,

But the gentleman's, if she Should accept another escort, Where he does n't chance to be?

If a person's on the sidewalk, Whether great or whether small, Is it anybody's business

Where that person means to call? Or if you see a person

While he's calling anywhere,

Is it any of your business

What his business may be there?

The substance of our query,
Simply stated, would be this:
Is it anybody's business

What another's business is?
Whether 't is or whether 't is n't

We should really like to know, For we are certain, if it is n't,

There are some who make it so.

FIRST APPEARANCE IN TYPE.

H, here it is! I'm famous now;
An author and a poet,

It really is in print. Hurrah!
How proud I'll be to show it.

And gentle Anna! what a thrill
Will animate her breast,

To read these ardent lines, and know,

To whom they are addressed.

Why, bless my soul! here's something wrong;
What can the paper mean,

By talking of the "graceful brook,"
That "ganders o'er the green?"

And here's a t instead of r,

Which makes it "tippling rill,"

We'll seek the "shad" instead of "shade," And "hell" instead of "hill."

"Thy looks so "-what?—I recollect,

'Twas "sweet," and then 'twas "kind";

And now, to think-the stupid fool-
For "bland" has printed "blind."

Was ever such provoking work?
('Tis curious, by the by,

That any thing is rendered blind
By giving it an i.)

The color of the "rose" is "nose," "Affection" is "affliction."

I wonder if the likeness holds

In fact as well as fiction? "Thou art a friend" The r is gone; Whoever could have deemed

That such a trifling thing could change A friend into a fiend.

"Thou art the same," is rendered shame," It really is too bad!

And here because an i is out
My lovely "maid" is mad.

They drove her blind by poking in
An i-a process new-

And now they've gouged it out again,
And made her crazy, too.

I'll read no more. What shall I do?
I'll never dare to send it.

The paper's scattered far and wide,
"Tis now too late to mend it.

Oh, fame! thou cheat of human life,
Why did I ever write!

I wish my poem had been burnt,
Before it saw the light.

a

THE CONFESSION.

HERE'S somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast! The live-long day I sigh, father,

At night I cannot rest;

I cannot take my rest, father,
Though I would fain do so,
A weary weight oppresseth me—
The weary weight of woe!
'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;
My kin are leal and true, father,

They mourn to see my grief,
But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand

Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.

'Tis not the coldness of her heart
That chills my laboring breast-
It's that confounded cucumber
I ate, and can't digest!

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

MEMBER of the Esculapian line lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of your head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him "a fine man!" His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the belles lettres. Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town-it might be four-to whom, one evening Bolus sent an article--in pharmacy that's called cathartical: and on the label of the stuff he wrote this verse, which one would think was clear enough, and terse

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's house he goes, upon his pad, who a vile trick of stumb ling had; but he arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double rap. The servant lets him in, with

It has divided me from you,

And even me from me!

Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt as people say;

My ghost can't walk, for, O, my legs
Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without 'a quarter's notice.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;

O Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu-a long adieu !

I've solved death's awful riddle,

And would say more, but I am doomed

To break off in the middle !"

All spread

With spots of white and red;

Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,

And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don't forget the name.

Her brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all;
One of your great, big nothings, as we say
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes
And cracking them on other folks.

Well, David undertook one night to play
The ghost, and frighten Abel, who,

He knew,

Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood

That stood

Below

The house some distance-half a mile or so.

With a long taper

Cap of white paper,

| Just made to cover

A wig, nearly as large over

As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast,

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) He took

His station near

A huge oak-tree,

Whence he could overlook

The road and see

Whatever might appear

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel Had left the table

Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,

To taste a flagon

Of malt

Liquor, and so forth, which, being done, He went on,

Caring no more for twenty ghosts,

Than if they were so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating;

At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman's voice,

And then the noise

Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring

With all his might, and pouring

Out, in great confusion,

Scraps of old songs made in "The Revolution."
His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton;
And jovially he went on,

Scaring the whip-poor-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these :-[Sings.]

66 See the Yankees leave the hill,

With baggernetts declining,

With lopped-down hats and rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.

See the Yankees-Whoa! Why, what is that?"
Said Abel, staring like a cat,

As slowly on the fearful figure strode

Into the middle of the road.

"My conscience, what a suit of clothes!

Some crazy fellow, I suppose.

Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers a

gin,

That's a strange dress to travel in."

"Be silent, Abel; for I now have come

To read your doom;

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.

I am a spirit—"

"I suppose you are;

But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny ;

All spirits must be either good
Or bad-that's understood-

And be you good or evil, I am sure
That I'm secure.

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil

And I don't know but you may be the devilIf that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy!"

7

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

OUNG BEN he was a nice young man,

A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.

'Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me ;

For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,

She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her,
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow ;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender ship, you see;"
"The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hardship that must be!

K Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But oh!-I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The Virgin and the Scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place,
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,

How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow."

Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,”
But could not though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:

They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

THOMAS HOOD.

OF A CERTAIN MAN.

HERE was (not certain when) a certain preacher,

That never learned, and yet became a teacher,

Who having read in Latin thus a text

Of erat quidam homo, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, There was a certain man. "But now," quoth he, “good people, note you this He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But, yet, I think, in all your Bible no man

Can find this text, There was a certain woman." SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.