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8. The butter, in spite of his scolding and warning,

Is, if possible, worse than he had in the morning:
She has paid no regard to one word he commanded,
What mortal's good temper is able to stand it?

9. Not much, to be sure, at the best he could boast,

And his dinner mischance had extinguished the most,
While the little not slain in the previous flutter,
Is now drowned in the tea, and interred in the butter.

10. No longer the course of misfortune we trace:

But we thought we could draw from his pitiful case
A moral as plain as if Æsop had shown it-

little house and a wife of your own in't.

Get a snug

TO A MOUSE.ROBERT BURNS.

ON TURNING ONE UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGE.

1. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa so hastie,

Wi’ bickering brattle !*
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee

Wi' murd’ring pattle.t

2. I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

And fellow mortal !

3. I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve :

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live!

* A short race.

+ Plough-staff.

A daimen icker* in a thrave,

'S a sma' request :
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, I

And never miss't.

4. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !

Its silly wa's the winds are strewin'!
And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green!
And bleak December's winds ensuin'

Baith snell and keen !

5. Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozies here beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out through thy cell.

6. That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble;
Now thou's turned out for a thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

And cranreuch cauld!

7. But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o mice and men,

Gang aft a-gley,**
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain

For promised joy.

8. Still art thou blest, compared wi' me !

The present only toucheth thee : * An ear of corn now and then. + A shock of corn. The rest. Snugly.

| The hoarfrost. | Not alone. ** Off the right line, wrong.

But oh! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear!
And forward, though I canna see,

I guess and fear.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.-G. P. MORRIS.

1. Why dost thou come at set of sun

Those pensive words to say ?
Why whip-poor-will ?—what has he done?

And who is Will I pray ?

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2. Why come you

from
yon

leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?
Why ask of me to whip-poor-will?

And is Will really poor?

3. If poverty's his crime, let mirth

From out his heart be driven ;
That is the deadliest sin on earth,

And never is forgiven.

4. Art Will himself? It must be so,

I learn it from thy moan ;
For none can feel another's woe

As deeply as his own.

5. Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat

While other birds repose ?
What means thy melancholy note ?

The mystery disclose.

6. Still “ Whip-poor-will," --Art thou a sprite From unknown regions sent,

To wander in the gloom of night

And ask for punishment ?

7. Is thine a conscience sore beset

With guilt or what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns and debt,

No money in thy purse ?

8. If this be thy hard fate indeed,

Ah, well mayst thou repine !
The sympathy I give I need,

The poet's doom is thine.

9. Art thou a lover, Will ?-hast proved

The fairest can deceive ?
Thine is the lot of all who've loved

Since Adam wedded Eve.

10. Hast trusted in a friend, and seen

No friend was he in need ?
A common error-men still lean

Upon as frail a reed.

11. Hast thou in seeking wealth and fame

A crown of brambles won ?
O’er all the earth, 'tis just the same
With
every

mother's son.

12. Hast found the world a Babel wide

Where man to mammon stoops ;
Where flourish arrogance and pride,

While modest merit droops ?

13. What none of these? Then whence thy pain

To
guess

it who's the skill ?
Pray have the kindness to explain

Why I should whip-poor-will!

14. Dost merely ask thy just desert ?

What not another word ?
Back to the woods again, unhurt,

I would not harm thee, bird !

15. But treat thee kindly-for my nerves,

Like thine have penance done;
Treat every man as he deserves,

Who shall 'scape whipping ?-NONE !

16. Farewell, poor Will not valueless

This lesson by thee given ;
Keep thine own counsel, and confess

Thyself alone to Heaven !

THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.--Tart's MAGAZINE

1. Away, away, I burst !

Who will follow me? who?
I have quenched my burning thirst,

And I'm off !—Whiz, whistle, whew!

2. With my glowing heart of fire,

And my never tiring arm,
And my whisp'ring magic wire,

With its space-destroying charm,
From the city I sweep along,

Like an arrow swift and true;
And before the eyes of the dazzled throng

I sing out-Whiz, whistle, whew!

3. The citizen stood in my path,

With the bower of delights he had made, And proudly he vowed, in his wrath,

That his privacy none should invade;

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