Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And oaks were scattered on the ground, And all above was in a howl, It chanced to be our washing-day, I saw the shirts and petticoats I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, I lost my Sunday breeches ! I saw them straddling through the air, I saw them chase the clouds, as if "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried, - That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them! I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. WROTE some lines once on a time And thought, as usual, men would say They were so queer, so very queer, Albeit, in the general way, I called my servant, and he came; To mind a slender man like me, "These to the printer," I exclaimed, I added, (as a trifling jest,) "There 'll be the devil to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, At the first line he read, his face He read the next; the grin grew broad, He read the third; a chuckling noise The fourth; he broke into a roar; Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, THE HOT SEASON. HE folks, that on the first of May "Good Lord! how hot it grows! At last two Fahrenheits blew up, And one barometer shot dead Now all day long the locusts sang Three new hotels warped inside out, The Worcester locomotives did Plump men of mornings ordered tights, Their candle-moulds had grown as loose The dogs ran mad, men could not try But soon the people could not bear Allusions to caloric drew A flood of savage ire; The leaves on heat were all torn out And many blackguards kicked and caned, The gas-light companies were mobbed, The penny press began to talk Of Lynching Doctor Nott; And all about the warehouse steps The abolition men and maids Were tanned to such a hue, You scarce could tell them from their friends, Unless their eyes were blue; And, when I left, society Had burst its ancient guards, And Brattle Street and Temple Place DEPARTED DAYS. |ES, dear departed, cherished days, Could Memory's hand restore Your morning light, your evening rays From Time's gray urn once more, — Then might this restless heart be still, This straining eye might close, And Hope her fainting pinions fold, While the fair phantoms rose. But, like a child in ocean's arms, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore Where life's young fountains gleam; |