Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities Part 16

In Orange Street, Lemon vends porter and ale, In Hart Street, Jack Deer keeps a stable; In Hill Street located you'll find Mr. Dale, In Blue Anchor Row, Mr. Cable.

In Knight-Rider Street, you've both Walker and Day, In Castle Street, Champion and Spearman; In Blackman Street, Lillywhite makes a display, In Cheapside lives sweet Mrs. Dearman.

In Paradise Row, Mr. Adam sells figs, Eve, in Apple Tree Yard, rooms has taken; Mr. Coltman, in Foley Street, fits you with wigs, In Hog Lane you call upon Bacon.

Old Homer in Greek Street sells barrels and staves, While Pope, in Cross Lane, is a baker; In Liquorpond Street, Mr. Drinkwater shaves, In Cow Lane lives A. Veal, undertaker."

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

"A pretty deer is dear to me, A hare with downy hair; I love a hart with all my heart, But barely bear a bear.

'Tis plain that no one takes a plane To pare a pair of pears; A rake, though, often takes a rake To tear away the tares.

All rays raise thyme, time razes all; And, through the whole, hole wears.

A writ, in writing 'right,' may write It 'wright,' and still be wrong-- For 'wright' and 'rite' are neither 'right,'

And don't to 'write' belong.

Beer often brings a bier to man, Coughing a coffin brings; And too much ale will make us ail, As well as other things.

The person lies who says he lies When he is but reclining; And when consumptive folks decline, They all decline declining.

A quail don't quail before a storm-- A bough will bow before it; We cannot rein the rain at all-- No earthly powers reign o'er it; The dyer dyes awhile, then dies; To dye he's always trying, Until upon his dying bed He thinks no more of dyeing.

A son of Mars mars many a sun; All deys must have their days, And every knight should pray each night To Him who weighs his ways.

'Tis meet that man should mete out meat To feed misfortune's son; The fair should fare on love alone, Else one cannot be won.

A la.s.s, alas! is something false; Of faults a maid is made; Her waist is but a barren waste-- Though stayed she is not staid.

The springs spring forth in spring, and shoots Shoot forward one and all; Though summer kills the flowers, it leaves The leaves to fall in fall.

I would a story here commence, But you might find it stale; So let's suppose that we have reached The tail end of our tale."

SPELLING REFORM.

"With tragic air the love-lorn heir Once chased the chaste Louise; She quickly guessed her guest was there To please her with his pleas.

Now at her side he kneeling sighed, His sighs of woeful size; 'Oh, hear me here, for lo, most low I rise before your eyes.

'This soul is sole thine own, Louise-- 'Twill never wean, I ween, The love that I for aye shall feel, Though mean may be its mien!'

'You know I cannot tell you no,'

The maid made answer true; 'I love you aught, as sure I ought-- To you 'tis due I do!'

'Since you are won, Oh fairest one, The marriage rite is right-- The chapel aisle I'll lead you up This night,' exclaimed the knight."

--_Yonkers' Gazette, U.S._

OWED TO MY CREDITORS.

"In vain I lament what is past, And pity their woe-begone looks, Though they grin at the credit they gave, I know I am in their best books.

To my _tailor_ my _breaches_ of faith, On my conscience now but lightly sit, For such lengths in his _measures_ he's gone, He has given me many a _fit_.

My bootmaker, finding at _last_ That my _soul_ was too stubborn to suit, _Waxed_ wroth when he found he had got Anything but the _length of my foot_.

My hatmaker cunningly _felt_ He'd seen many like me before, So _brimful_ of insolence, vowed On credit he'd crown me no more.

My baker was _crusty_ and _burnt_, When he found himself quite _overdone_ By a _fancy-bred_ chap like myself,-- Ay, as _cross_ as a _Good Friday's bun_.

Next, my laundress, who washed pretty clean, In behaviour was dirty and bad; For into hot water she popped All the shirts and the d.i.c.kies I had.

Then my butcher, who'd little at _stake_, Most surlily opened his _chops_, And swore my affairs out of _joint_, So on to my carcase he pops.

In my lodgings exceedingly high, Though low in the rent to be sure, Without warning my landlady seized, Took my things and the key of the door.

Thus cruelly used by the world, In the Bench I can smile at its hate; For a time I must alter my _style_, For I cannot get out of the _gate_."

AN ORIGINAL LOVE STORY.

"He struggled to kiss her. She struggled the same To prevent him, so bold and undaunted; But, as smitten by lightning, he heard her exclaim, 'Avaunt, sir!' and off he avaunted.

But when he returned, with the fiendishest laugh, Showing clearly that he was affronted, And threatened by main force to carry her off, She cried 'Don't!' and the poor fellow donted.

When he meekly approached, and sat down at her feet, Praying aloud, as before he had ranted, That she would forgive him and try to be sweet, And said, 'Can't you!' the dear girl recanted.

Then softly he whispered, 'How could you do so?

I certainly thought I was jilted; But come thou with me, to the parson we'll go; Say, wilt thou, my dear?' and she wilted."

PREVALENT POETRY.

"A wandering tribe, called the Siouxs, Wear moccasins, having no shiouxs.

They are made of buckskin, With the fleshy side in, Embroidered with beads of bright hyiouxs.

When out on the war-path, the Siouxs March single file--never by tiouxs-- And by 'blazing' the trees Can return at their ease, And their way through the forests ne'er liouxs.

All new-fashioned boats he eschiouxs, And uses the birch-bark caniouxs; These are handy and light, And, inverted at night, Give shelter from storms and from dyiouxs.

The princ.i.p.al food of the Siouxs Is Indian maize, which they briouxs And hominy make, Or mix in a cake, And eat it with fork, as they chiouxs."

--_Scribner's Magazine._

A TEMPERANCE SERMON.

"If for a stomach ache you tache Each time some whisky, it will break You down and meak you sheak and quache, And you will see a horrid snache.

Much whisky doth your wits beguile, Your breath defuile, yourself make vuile; You lose your style, likewise your pyle, If you erewhyle too often smuile.

But should there be, like now, a drought, When water and your strength give ought, None will your good name then malign If you confign your drink to wign."

--_H. C. Dodge._

"There was a young man in Bordeaux, He said to himself--'Oh, heaux!

The girls have gone back on me seaux, What to do I really don't kneaux.'"

_TECHNICAL VERSE._

ANTIc.i.p.aTORY DIRGE ON PROFESSOR BUCKLAND, THE GEOLOGIST.

BY BISHOP SHUTTLEWORTH.

"Mourn, Ammonites, mourn o'er his funeral urn, Whose neck ye must grace no more; Gneiss, Granite, and Slate!--he settled your date, And his ye must now deplore.

Weep, Caverns, weep! with infiltering drip, Your recesses he'll cease to explore; For mineral veins or organic remains No Stratum again will he bore.

Oh! his wit shone like crystal!--his knowledge profound From Gravel to Granite descended; No Trap could deceive him, no Slip could confound, Nor specimen, true or pretended.

He knew the birth-rock of each pebble so round, And how far its tour had extended.

His eloquence rolled like the Deluge retiring, Which Mastodon carcases floated; To a subject obscure he gave charms so inspiring Young and old on Geology doated.