'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse, My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks, They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide; But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me Gay," they have not left me "Sterne." FRANCIS HOPKINSON. THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS. GALLANTS, attend and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty; Strange things I'll tell which late befell In Philadelphia city. 'T was early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising. As in amaze he stood to gaze, The truth can't be denied, sir, He spied a score of kegs or more Come floating down the tide, sir. A sailor too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First rubbed his eyes, in great surprise, Then said some mischief 's brewing. These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold In this new way of ferrying. The soldier flew, the sailor too, And scared almost to death, sir, Wore out their shoes, to spread the news, And ran till out of breath, sir. Now up and down throughout the town Most frantic scenes were acted; Some fire cried, which some denied, Ran through the streets half naked. From sleep Sir William starts upright, He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries, At his bedside he then espied Sir Erskine at command, sir; Alas! and I have not When one pert lady said 66 Bewildered with affright! Another more benign Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended it was found, That one, and twirled it round; Fair as she was she never was so fair! UNDER THE LINDENS. UNDER the lindens lately sat I heard the words, how sweet!" Had then the fairies given a treat I pondered long, and could not tell What dainty pleased them both so well: I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on Bees! pees! was it your hydromel your head!" Under the lindens? Mit pooks, ash men, ve see, De pest tressed vellers gilt de most: Said Breitemann, said he. Dey vent oonto a bicture sale, Öf frames wort' many a cent, De broberty of a shendleman, "Vot bities dat der Fechter ne'er Vas in Theologie. Dey'd make him pishop in dis shoorsh," Said Breitemann, said he. Dey vent polid'gal meedins next, Dey hear dem rant and rail, Der bresident vas a forger, Shoost bardoned oud of jail. He does it oud of cratitood To dem who set him vree: "Id's Harmonie of Inderesds," Said Breitemann, said he. Dey vent to a clairfoyand vitch, A plack-eyed handsome maid, She wahrsagt all der vortunes- denn "Fife dollars, gents!" she said. "Dese vitches are nod of dis eart', Und yed are on id, I see Der Shakesbeare knew de preed right vell," Said Breitemann, said he. "Don't gry-he'll soon pe pack Dey vented to a restaurand, again Mit anoder gallerie: He sells dem oud dwelf dimes a year," Said Breitemann, said he. Dey vented to dis berson's house, Sold oud at aucdion rite afay, Berembdory und sure. "He geeps six houses all at vonce, Each veek a sale dere pe; Gotts! vat a dime his vife moost hafe!" Said Breitemann, said he. Dey vent to hear a breecher of Der vaiter coot a dash; He garfed a shicken in a vink, "Dat shap knows vell shoost how to SCHNITZERL'S PHILOSopede. HERR SCHNITZERL make a pede, Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss? Von of de pullyest kind; It vent mitout a vheel in front, And hadn't none pehind. Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough, And it vent as sure as ecks, For he shtraddled on de axle-dree Mit de vheel petween his lecks. Und ven he vant to shtart id off, He run her out on Broader Shtreed, De vellers mit de trottin nags Pooled oop to see him bass; De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt: "Potztausend! Was ist das?" Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed On-mit a gashtly smile; Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt, So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein His feet both shlipped outsideward shoost When at his extra shpeed. He felled oopon der vheel, of course; For id shlished him grod in two. Und as for his philosopede, Id cot so shkared, men say, It pounded onward till it vent But vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's soul? Where dos his shbirit pide? Don't be always dividing - but sometimes combine; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birth-day' 66 Amen," says the clerk. "If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!" "Then they all got blind drunk-which completed their bliss, Now the first faction fight in owld And we keep up the practice from Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Patrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth-for the ninth more would die, And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye. At last, both the factions so positive grew, That each kept a birth-day, so Pat then had two, that day to this. RORY O'MORE. YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn; |