AVERY DRYCUSS.

THE BALLAD OF BILL MAGEE.

Written for this work.

He was a skillful mariner,

A weather-beaten man,
The master of the oyster sloop
They call the Sally Ann.

Not rendered vile by oysters, nor
Demoralized by clams,

He was a strictly moral man,

And sang no songs but psalms.

And, if he used hard words at times,
His language, it is plain,
Was garnished then with expletives,
And not at all profane.

I asked of this old mariner,

Whose name was Bill Magee,
To tell me some adventure strange,
That happened him at sea.

This hardy seaman stood him up,

Close by the ship's caboose, And lay his quid upon its roof,

To serve for further use.

He hitched his trowsers right and left,
Glanced upward at the sail,

And hawked and spat and pucked his lips,
And then began his tale.

"Twas on the twenty-fourth of June,

In the year of seventy-one,

About two hours, or thereabouts,

Before the set of sun.

"Our stately vessel spread her sail,
Down Hudson making way,

To stem the dangers of the Kill,
And venture Newark Bay.

"We kept her off the Palisades

That we a breeze might find, And partly that as moral men

Fort Lee we'd leave behind.

"For oh! that is a wicked place,
And given to beer and sin-
They slew St. Mary Parish there
By pi'sonin' her gin.

"Sow-west by sow from Castle P'int,
At seven knots we ran,

When White, the black, our cook came up With lobscouse in a pan.

"It's smell upon our noses smote, The Mate he smacked his lips;

But White grew blacker as he cried'What's that among them ships?'

"A snort, a roar, a flood of foam, The fretted water's gleam

As though some huge torpedo boat

Were comin' up the stream.

"And as it came I felt my heart Within my body quake;

There from Nahant, on a Summer jaunt, I saw the great sea-snake.

"It raised its head, its crimson mouth
It opened good and wide;

You might have driven within the gap
Seven clam-cats side by side.

"Two eyes as big as oyster-kegs
Glared at us in the beast;
And under these a pair of jaws

Four rods in width at least.

"We could not scream, we could not stir, For help we could not call;

And the sarpent opened wide his mouth, And swallowed us, mast and all.

"Round keel and topmast choked his jaws,
We felt the muscles draw,

As he sucked us down his slimy throat,
And lodged us in his maw."

Bill shuddered at the memory,
His face grew deadly pale;
He hitched his trowsers dreamily,
And so he closed his tale.

'How got you out of the serpent's maw?"
I asked the mariner then;

He took up his quid, and sadly said-
"We never got out again!"

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

A RECITATION.

All the World's a Stage and man has seven ages, So Shakespeare writes, King of dramatic Sages; But he forgot to tell you in his plan,

That woman plays her part as well as man.

First, how her infant heart with triumph swells,
When the red coral shakes its silver bells!
She, like young Statesmen, as the rattle rings,
Leaps at the sound, and struts in leading strings.

Next little Miss, in a Pinafore so trim,
With nurse so noisy-with mamma so prim-
Eager to tell you, all she's taught to utter,
Lisps as she grasps the allotted bread and butter;
Type of her sex-who, though no longer young,
Holds everything with ease, except the tongue.
A school girl then, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapors;
Tramples alike on custom and on toes,

And whispers all she hears to all she knows; "Betty," she cries, "it comes into my head

Old maids grow cross because their cats are dead."
My governess has been in such a fuss,

About the death of our old tabby puss;

She wears black stockings, ha! ha! what a pother,
"'Cause one old cat's in mourning for another!"
The child of nature-free from pride and pomp,
And sure to please, though nothing but a romp.

Next riper Miss, who nature more disclosing,
Now finds some tracks of art are interposing;
And, with blue laughing eyes behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor-Man!
Behold her now, an ogling vain coquette,
Catching male gudgeons in her silver net.

All things reversed-the neck cropp'd close and bare,
Scarce feels the incumbrance of a single hair;
Whilst the thick forehead tresses, frizzled full,
Rival the tufted locks that grace the bull.

Then comes the sober character-a wife,
With all the dear distracting cares of life.
A thousand cares, a thousand joys extend,
For what may not, on a card depend?
Though justice in the morn claim fifty pounds,
Five hundred won at night may heal the wounds.
Now she'll snatch half a glance at operas, ball,
A meteor traced by none, though seen by all;
'Till spousy finds, while anxious to immure her,
A patent coffin only can secure her!

At last the Dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles, this age denounces.
And thus she moralizes:-

(Speaks like an old woman.) "How bold and forward each young flirt appears," Courtship in my time lasted seven long years. "Now seven little months suffice, of course," "For courting, marrying, scolding, and divorce." "What with their truss'd up shapes and pantaloons," "Dress occupies the whole of honey-moons."

"They say we have no souls—but what more odd is,”
"Nor men, nor women now have any bodies."

“When I was young, my heart was always tender,”
"And would to every spouse I had surrender;"
"Their wishes to refuse, I never durst,"

"And my fourth died as happy as my first."

Truce to such splenetic and rash designs,
And let us mingle candor with our lines
In all the stages of domestic life,

As child, as sister, parent, friend, or wife,
Woman, the source of every fond employ,
Softens affliction, and enlivens joy.

What is your boast, male rulers of the land?
How cold and cheerless all you can command;
Vain your ambition-vain your wealth and power,
Unless kind woman share your raptur'd hour;
Unless 'midst all the glare of pageant art,
She adds her smile, and triumphs in your heart.

BRUDDER PLATO JOHNSON'S SERMON.

ANON.

Belubbed, de Bible am a purty ole book, 'cordin to all accounts, but on de ole it can't be beat much by de printin' press ob to-day. I ain't got much ed'cashun, but I've got jess ignorance 'nuff to beleib de Possle wen he tell me dat a ting am so and so. I've cum back to de hearts and houses ob de colored people of South Carliny. I've ben spendin' my vacation 'mong de furriners ob New York. Dat eighteen dollars an' forty-two cents wat was raised by 'scription put me froo in 'mazin good style. I didn't stop at no fust-class hotel, an' ax fur de bridle chamber, but took my meals reg'lar at de apple stand an' borrered de front steps ob a rich man on Fif' avenu fur de nite. Dat's de wantage ob havin' de bronchitis in de summer time. I went to de big meetin' house of Brudder Hall in