Puslapio vaizdai
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RAILROAD RHYME.

SINGING through the forests, Rattling over ridges;

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail!

Men of different "stations"
In the eye of fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same;
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level,
Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large

Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,
With a loose-ish mien;
Gentleman in gray,
Looking rather green;
Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news;
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right

Looking very sunny, Obviously reading

Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the KnickerBocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left

Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain,

Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume

Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From Association."

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"If Famine should follow you,

He would find the harvest in; You think yourself and your mulberries

Too good for a mandarin.

I have yellow gold in my sleeve." But she answered, sharp and bold, "Be off! Let me pick my mulberries,

Good boys and girls, the best was

Bess,

I bore her on my shoulder;

A little bud of loveliness

That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way, They seemed to say, "Don't strike

me.

Then, growing bold another day, "I mean to make you like me. I liked my cousin, early, late,

Who liked not little misses: She used to meet me at the gate, Just old enough for kisses!

This was, I think, three years ago,
Before I went to college:

I learned but one thing-how to

row,

A healthy sort of knowledge.

I am bought with no man's gold. "When I was plucked, (we won the

She scratched his face with her nails,
Till he turned and fled for life,
For the lady picking mulberries
Was his true and virtuous wife!

TOO OLD FOR KISSES.

My uncle Philip, hale old man,

Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate and Ann

How many call me "Cousin ?"

race,)

And all was at an end there,

I thought of Uncle Philip's place,
And every country friend there.
My cousin met me at the gate,

She looked five, ten years older,
A tall young woman, still, sedate,
With manners coyer, colder.
She gave her hand with stately
pride.

"Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me." She replied, "I am too old for kisses."

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I loved I loved my Cousin Bess,
She's always in my mind now;
A full-blown bud of loveliness,

The rose of womankind now!
She must have suitors; old and young
Must bow their heads before her;
Vows must be made, and songs be
sung

By many a mad adorer.
But I must win her: she must give
To me her youth and beauty;
And I to love her while I live

Will be my happy duty.
For she will love me soon or late,

And be my bliss of blisses,
Will come to meet me at the gate,
Nor be too old for kisses!

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She knits, and sings with many a

sigh,

And, as her needles glide,
She wishes, and she wonders why
He is not at her side.

"He promised he would meet me here,

Upon this very spot:

O stay not long, but come, my dear, And knit our marriage knot!"

My lady will not sing the song;

Why not?" I say. And she, Tossing her head, "It is too long." And I, "Too short, may be.' She has her little wilful ways, But I persist, and then,

It is not maidenly," she says, "For maids to sigh for men.

But men must sigh for maids, I fear,

I know it is my lot,

Until you whisper, Come, my dear, And knit our marriage knot!" "

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Yet, should some neighbor feel a
pain

Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should
mend!

Inquire what regimen I kept?
What gave me ease, and how I slept ?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.
My good companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast.
They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
How is the dean? he's just alive.
Now the departing prayer is read;
He hardly breathes. The dean is
dead.

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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. | And Cordelier or Benedictine

A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields,

Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is

The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,

But still in comfortable caseThe which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;

All these you eat at Terré's tavern,

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is;

And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouilla-
baisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked écaillére is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your
table,

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter,

pray ?"

The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;

"Monsieur is dead this many a

day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!"
"What will Monsieur require for din-
ner?"

"Say, do you still cook Bouilla-
baisse ?"

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