And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat, And yonder's her weddin' gown: I wonder she didn't take that.

'Twas only this mornin' she came and call'd me her " dearest dear," And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise here!

O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of Hell,
Before you pitch him in just keep him in Heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I wish that death had sever'd us two apart:
You've lost a worshipper here, you've crush'd a lovin' heart.
I'll worship no woman again; but I guess I'll learn to pray,
And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some little influence there,

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,

As happy and gay as I was a half an hour ago.

JANE (entering).

Why, John, what a litter here! you've thrown things all around! Come, what's the matter now? and what have you lost or found? And here's my father here, a waiting for supper, too;

I've been a-riding with him, he's that "handsomer man than you."

Ha ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has cross'd your track?

I was only a-joking, you know, I'm willing to take it back.

JOHN (aside).

Well, now,
if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream!
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream;
And I think she "smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer;
I hope she don't; good gracious! I hope that they didn't hear!

'Twas one of her practical drives, she thought I'd understand! But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land. But one thing's settled with me, to appreciate Heaven well, 'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of Hell.

THE VAGABONDS.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog:- come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen, mind your eye! Over the table, look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramp'd through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank - and starved together.

We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen,)
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings, ) Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir, - I never drink;
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,
Aren't we, Roger? - see him wink! —

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too, see him nod his head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable thankless master!

No, sir!

see him wag his tail and grin !

By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain !

Stand straight!

'Bout face! Salute your officer! Dress! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see.)

Put up that paw!

Cap, while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot-soldier.

March!

Now hold your

Halt! Now show how the traitor shakes,

When he stands up to hear his sentence;

Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honour a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!

Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going! —

Some brandy, thank you, there!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

- it passes!

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,

That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out Heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,

A dear girl's love,

but I took to drink; The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features, You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures: I was one of your handsome men!

If

you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs
I sung

When the wine went round, you
That ever I, sir, should be straying

wouldn't have guess'd

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,

a parson's wife :

'Twas better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopp'd:

But little she dream'd, as on she went,
Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropp'd!

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

"Twas well she died before. Do you know If the happy spirits in Heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing,

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN.

HOLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so;
There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow;
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,
And fix'd faces all streak'd, and crimson-soak'd hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, you would see a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him, — you think so; and I
Am only his mother: my boy shall not lie

In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share.
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go? then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps, my heart will lead right.
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the slain,
All mangled and gory!— what horrible pain
These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, O, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep!