Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below. THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. HERE are three ways in which men take And very hard it is to tell Which of the three is worse; But all of them are bad enough You're riding out some pleasant day, It's hard to meet such pressing friends It's very hard to lose your cash, And so you take your wallet out, Though you would rather not. Perhaps you 're going out to dine, You'll hear about the cannon-ball And says it is a dreadful thing He tells you of his starving wife, Poor little, lovely innocents, All clamorous for bread, And so you kindly help to put You're sitting on your window-seat, You hear a sound, that seems to wear As if a broken fife should strive To drown a cracked bassoon. And nearer, nearer still, the tide There's something like a human voice, You sit in speechless agony, Until your ear is numb. Poor "home, sweet home" should seem to be A very dismal place; Your "auld acquaintance" all at once Is altered in the face; Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dressed in lace. You think they are crusaders, sent And dock the tail of Rhyme, And break the legs of Time. But hark! the air again is still, No! Pay the dentist when he leaves And pay the owner of the bear, That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had But if you are a portly man, Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down! And if you are a slender man, Or, if you cannot make a speech, Go very quietly and drop A button in the hat! THE TREADMILL SONG. HE stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel Then tread away, my gallant boys, Why should not wheels go round about, Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man, What though you 're awkward at the trade, So lean upon the rail, my lad, They've built us up a noble wall, So faster, now, you middle men, It's pleasant work to ramble round Here, tread upon the long man's toes, He sha'n't be lazy here, And punch the little fellow's ribs, And tweak that lubber's ear, - don't pull his hair, Because he wears a scratch, But poke him in the further eye, Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell, And so our work is done; It's pretty sport, suppose we take A round or two for fun! If ever they should turn me out, THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 'M not a chicken; I have seen The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clashing; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the fire was flashing, A little stir among the clouds, A little rocking of the trees, And then came on the thunder. |