Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

And little bread shall do me stead

Much bread I nought desire.
No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold--

I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

And Tyb, my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till you may see

The tears run down her cheek;
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl,

Even as a malt-worm shold;
And saith"Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.”
Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do ;
They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to;

And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily trowl'd,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old!

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!

JOHN STILL.

THE JOVIAL Beggar.

THERE was a jovial beggar,

He had a wooden leg,
Lame from his cradle,
And forced for to beg.

And a-begging we will go,
Will go, will go,
And a-begging we will go.

A bag for his oatmeal,

Another for his salt,

And a long pair of crutches,
To show that he can halt.
And a-begging we will go
Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

A bag for his wheat,
Another for his rye,

And a little bottle by his side,
To drink when he's a-dry.
And a-begging we will go,
Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

Seven years I begg'd

For my old master Wilde, He taught me how to beg When I was but a child. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

I begg❜d for my master,

And got him store of pelf, But, Goodness now be praised, I'm begging for myself. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go.

In a hollow tree

I live, and pay no rent,
Providence provides for me,
And I am well content.

And a-begging we will go,
Will go, will go,
And a-begging we will go.

Of all the occupations,

A beggar's is the best, For whenever he's a-weary, He can lay him down to rest. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

I fear no plots against me,
I live in open cell;
Then who would be a king, lads,
When the beggar lives so well?
And a-begging we will go,

Will go, will go,

And a-begging we will go.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

MAY the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind

(Still the phrase is wide or scant),
To take leave of thee, Great Plant!
Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:
For I hate, yet love thee so,
That whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take

'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way,

While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses, or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

While each man, through thy height'ning steam,

Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us: Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou,

That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?

Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain: Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys; Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth, and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison; Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use
At a need, when in despair,
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;

And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-
Not that she is truly so,

But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall
On the darling thing whatever
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. AN Attorney was taking a turn, In shabby habiliments dress'd; His coat it was shockingly worn, And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffer'd a breach,

His linen and worsted were worse; He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, And not half a crown in his purse. And thus as he wander'd along..

A cheerless and comfortless elf, He sought for relief in a song,

Or complainingly talk'd to himself:"Unfortunate man that I am!

I've never a client but grief: The case is, I've no case at all,

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief! "I've waited and waited in vain,

Expecting an opening' to find,

Where an honest young lawyer might gain Some reward for toil of his mind.

""Tis not that I'm wanting in law,

Or lack an intelligent face,

For thy sake, Tobacco, I

Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

CHARLES LAMB.

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 waiters 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 sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row

I sat, and some one touch'd my head; He tender'd ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead.

"HORATIUS FLACCUS, B. C. 8,"

There's not a doubt about the date,-
You're dead and buried:

As you remarked, the seasons roll,
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

Since, mourned of men and Muses nine.
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know,
To help refine us,

Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus ;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!
We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.