If he does not in time look about him;
Where his namesake almost
He may have for his Host;
He has reckoned too long without him;
If that Host get him in Purgatory,
He won't leave him there alone with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,
For from thence there is no stealing away,
As there was on the road from Moscow.
Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."
"Tis green! 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!"
"Green?" cries the other, in a fury;
"Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes!"
"Twere no great loss," the friend replies;
"For if they always use you thus,
You'll find them but of little use."
So high, at last, the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," said the umpire, cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candle light;
I marked it well-'twas black as jet:
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it.”—“ Pray, sir, do ;
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you,
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."
WHEN Dermot O'Dowd coorted Molly M'Can,
They were sweet as the honey and soft as the down,
But when they were wed they began to find out
That Dermot could storm and that Molly could frown;
They would neither give in-so the neighbors gave out—
Both were hot, till a coldness came over the two,
And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther,
Stamp holes in the flure, and cry out "wirrasthru !
Oh murther! I'm married,
I'm sleepless and speechless-no word can I say.
My bed is no use,
I'll give back to the goose
The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day."
"Ah!" says Molly, "you once used to call me a bird."
"Faix, you're ready enough still to fly out," says he.
"You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies,
And my lips like the rose-now no longer like me."
Says Dermot, "your eyes are as bright as the morn,
But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud,
If your lip is a rose-sure your tongue is a thorn
That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd.”
Says Molly, "you once said my voice was a thrush,
But now it's a rusty ould hinge with a creak ;”
Says Dermot, "you call'd me a duck when I coorted,
But now I'm a goose every day in the week.
But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock, From the first 'twas ordained so by Nature, I fear,
Ould Adam himself was the first o' the flock,
And Eve, with her apple sauce, cooked him, my dear."
FATHER LAND AND MOTHER TONGUE.
OUR Father land! and would'st thou know
Why we should call it Father land?
It is that Adam here below,
Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand,
And we, in memory of his birth,
Do call our country, "Father land."
At first, in Eden's bowers they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day-
And may be, 'twas for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,
Made Adam soon surpass the birds,
She gave him lovely Eve-because
If he'd a wife-they must have words.
And so, the NATIVE LAND I hold,
By male descent is proudly mine;
The LANGUAGE, as the tale hath told,
Was given in the female line.
And thus, we see, on either hand,
We name our blessings whence they've sprung,
We call our country FATHER land,
We call our language MOTHER tongue.
MY ONLY CLIENT.
OH! take away my wig and gown,
Their sight is mockery now to me:
I pace my chambers up and down,
Reiterating"Where is he?"
Alas! wild echo, with a moan,
Murmurs above my feeble head:
In the wide world I am alone;
Ha ha! my only client's-dead!
In vain the robing-room I seek;
The very waite s scarcely bow;
Their looks contemptuously speak,
"He's lost his only client now."
E'en the mild usher, who, of yore,
Would hasten when his name I said,
To hand in motions, comes no more,
He knows my only client's dead.
Ne'er shall I, rising up in court,
Open the pleadings of a suit:
Ne'er shall the judges cut me short
While moving them for a compute.
No more with a consenting brief
Shall I politely bow my head;
Where shall I run to hide my grief?
Alas! my only client's dead.
Imagination's magic power
Brings back, as clear as clear can be, The spot, the day, the very hour,
When first I signed my maiden plea.
In the Exchequer's hindmost row
I sat, and some one touched my head,
He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!
That only client now is dead!
In vain I try to sing-I'm hoarse:
In vain I try to play the flute,
A phantom seems to flit across-
It is the ghost of a compute.
I try to read, but all in vain ;
My chamber listlessly I tread;
Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain;
Ho! ho! my only client's dead.
I think I hear a double knock:
I did-alas! it is a dun.
Tailor-avaunt! my sense you shock;
He's dead! you know I had but one.
What's this they thrust into my hand?
A bill returned!-ten pounds for bread!
My butcher's got a large demand;
I'm mad! my only client's dead.
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