1

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,
Wide yawned their mortal seams.

The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard;
He opened both his eyes,

And sullenly he shook his tail
To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord,

One struggle and one bound,

With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The Pig was on the ground!

And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
And open swung the door,
And little mincing feet were heard
Pat, pat along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
And two upon the bed;
And they are breathing side by side,
The living and the dead!

"Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes thy cheek so pale ?

Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail?"

Untwisted every winding coil;

The shuddering wretch took hold,

All like an icicle it seemed,

So tapering and so cold.

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!”.
He strives to loose his grasp,
But, faster than the clinging vine,
Those twining spirals clasp.

And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;

They called full loud, they knocked full long,
They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam,
A trampled pathway ran;

A ghastly shape was swinging there,
It was the butcher man.

79

LINES BY A CLERK.

H! I did love her dearly,

And gave her toys and rings,

And I thought she meant sincerely,
When she took my pretty things.

But her heart has grown as icy
As a fountain in the fall,

And her love, that was so spicy,
It did not last at all.

I

gave her once a locket,

It was filled with my own hair,
And she put it in her pocket
With very special care,

But a jeweller has got it, -
He offered it to me,

And another that is not it
Around her neck I see.

For my cooings and my billings
I do not now complain,
But my dollars and my shillings
Will never come again;

They were earned with toil and sorrow,
But I never told her that,

And now I have to borrow,

And want another hat.

Think, think, thou cruel Emma,

When thou shalt hear my woe,

And know my sad dilemma,

That thou hast made it so.

See, see my beaver rusty,

Look, look upon this hole,

This coat is dim and dusty;
O let it rend thy soul!

Before the gates of fashion
I daily bent my knee,

But I sought the shrine of passion,
And found my idol, - thee.
Though never love intenser

Had bowed a soul before it,

Thine eye was on the censer,

And not the hand that bore it.

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN.

SAW the curl of his waving lash,

And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,

As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still,
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers,

And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their spectre eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go faster ;

He does not know, as he scrambles along,
That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride,
Nor deign from the mire to save me;

I will paddle it stoutly at your side
With the tandem that nature gave me !

THE POET'S LOT.

HAT is a poet's love?

To write a girl a sonnet,

To get a ring, or some such thing,
And fustianize upon it.

What is a poet's fame?

Sad hints about his reason,

And sadder praise from garreteers,
To be returned in season.

Where go the poet's lines?-
Answer, ye evening tapers!
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers!

Child of the ploughshare, smile ;

Boy of the counter, grieve not,

Though muses round thy trundle-bed
Their broidered tissue weave not.