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No—no, that time can ne'er arrive, for, whatsoe'er befall,
4. My winsome one, my gallant one, so fair, so happy now,
With thy bonnet set so proudly upon thy shining brow,
gone, And thou shalt pilgrimize through life, unfriended and alone, Without an aid to strengthen or console thy troubled mind, Save the memory of the love of those who left thee thus
5. Oh, let me not awake the thought, but, in the present blest, Make thee a child of wisdom—and to Heaven bequeath
the rest : For rather let me image thee, in sunny
future days, Outdoing every deed of mine and wearing brighter bays; With less to dull thy fervency of recollected pain, And more, to animate thy course of glory and of gain; A home as happy shall be thine, and I too shall be there, The blessings purchased by thy worth in peace and love to
shareShall see within thy beaming eye my early love repaid, And
every ill of failing life a bliss by kindness madeShall see thee pour upon thy son, then sitting on thy knee, A father's gushing tenderness, such as I feel for thee; And know, as I at this moment do, no brighter, better joy, Than thus to clasp unto thy soul thy darling little boy !
Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour.
James. Whom do you want, sir,--your coachman or your cook ? for I am both one and t’other.
Love. I want my cook.
James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. (Puts off his coachman's great coat and appears as a cook.) Now, sir, I am ready for your commands.
Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.
James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half year; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but for a supper I'm almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.
Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper.
James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir.
Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money. .
James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table?
Love. About eight or ten; but I will have a supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten.
James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham, and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea
Love. Patience ! is the fellow providing an entertainment for my lord mayor
and the court of aldermen? James. Then a ragout
Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good peo ple, you dog?
James. Then pray, sir, say what will you have?
Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs ; let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet-pudding; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small, lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. James. O,
Love. Well, then,-kill the old hen, for she has done laying
James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already.
Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray ?
James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry.
Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the world
says James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your ac. count. One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages.
Love. Poh! poh!
James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses.
Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.
James. In a word, you are the by-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned, but by the name of covetous, stingy, scraping, old
Love. Get along, you impudent villain !
UNCLE JO.- ALICE CAREY.
1. I HAVE in memory a little story,
That few indeed would rhyme about but me; 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory,
Although a little colored with the three-
2. Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor
every one who had hard work to do; If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor
Most people thought--but there was one or two Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, “ Come in again, and see us, Uncle Jo!"
3. The “ uncle” was a courtesy they gave
And felt they could afford to give to him-
An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim;
4. A mile or so away he had a brother
A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire;
And baked his corn-cake at his cabin fire
5. They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness
For everybody that he could befriend;
But there, of course, his goodness had an end;
6. With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder,
And downcast eyes, and slow and sober treadHe sought the place of graves, and each beholder
Wondered and asked some other who was dead; But when he digged all day, nobody thought, That he had done a whit more than he ought.
7. At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted
Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow,
And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo;
8. They called and called again, and no replying ;
Smooth at the window, and about the door The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying
He didn't need the daylight any more. One shook him roughly, and another said : “ As true as preaching, Uncle Jo is dead !"
9. And when they wrapped him in linen, fairer
And finer, too, than he had worn till then,
Of sunny hopes, sometimes; or where, or when,
10. None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty
Of the young love that reached into the grave, Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty
He kept, despite the dark; but men less brave Have left great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust-poor man, he had no friends!