On the top of the Tub,

In the warmest of shirts,
The thin man stands,

While the fat by his skirts

Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing;

And the thin peers over the top of the cask, "Is there any hope for us?"

As much as to ask,

With a countenance cunning and knowing; And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail,

In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole, He twigs the long end of the old Tiger's tail As it twists itself out of the bung-hole.

Then, sharp on the watch,

He gives it a catch,

And shouts to the Tiger,

"You've now got your match;

You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar,
But I'm blest if I'll let your tail go any more!"
It's as safe as a young roasted pig in a larder,
And no two Bengalese could hold on by it harder.
With the Tiger's tail clenched fast in his fist,
And his own coat-tail grasped fast to assist,
Stands Tall-and-thin with Short-and-stout,
Both on the top of the Tub to scout,
Tiger within and they without,

And both in a pretty pickle.

The Tiger begins by giving a bound;

The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found
To have very carefully jumped to the ground—
At trifles they must not stickle.

It's no use quaking and turning pale,

Pluck and patience must now prevail,

They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail,
And neither one be fickle.

There they must pull, if they pull for weeks,

Straining their stomachs and bursting their cheeks,

While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks,

Trying to break away from 'em;

They must keep the Tub turned over his back, And never let his long tail get slack,

For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight,

From night till morning, from morn till night,-
Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep,
Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleep,—
No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub,

Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub,
Till the animal dies,

To his own surprise,

With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel,

And his tail thrust through the hole of a barrel.

Oh dear! oh dear! it's very clear

They can't live so; but they dare n't let goFate for a pitying world to wail,

Starving behind a Tiger's tail.

If Invention be Necessity's son,

Now let him tell them what 's to be done.
What's to be done! ha! I see a grin
Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin,
Some new device he has hit in a trice,
The which he is telling all about

To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout.
What 's to be done! what precious fun!
Have n't they found out what 's to be done!

See! see! what glorious glee!

Note! mark! what a capital lark!

Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all,

Baffled by what is about to befall.
Excellent! marvelous! beautiful! O!

Is n't it now an original go!
What, stop! I'm ready to drop.

Hold! stay! I'm fainting away.

Laughter I'm certain will kill me to-day;
And Short-and-stout is bursting his skin,
And almost in fits is Tall-and-thin,

And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail,

Though temper has all gone wrong with him No! they 've tied a knot in the Tiger's tail,

And he carried the Tub along with him;

He's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint,
And has made his last climax a true knotty point.
FREDERICK W. N. BAYLEY

The Old Sexton.

NIGH to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in-I gather them inGather-gather-I gather them in.

"I gather them in; for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude one by one;

But come they stranger, or come they kin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.

"Many are with me, yet I 'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne

On a monument slab of marble cold

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all !

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!' And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train Wound mutely over that solemn plain; And I said to myself: When time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din; "I gather them in-I gather them in

Gather-gather-gather them in."

PARK BENJAMIN.

The Private of the Buffs.

LAST night among his fellow-roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart with English instinct fraught
He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord or axe or flame,

He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow;

The smoke above his father's door

In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?

Yes, honor calls!—with strength like steel
He put the vision by ;

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep untamed
The strong heart of her sons;

So let his name through Europe ring,-
A man of mean estate,

Who died as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Light.

FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom

The sun rolled black and bare,

Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast
Of the threads of my golden hair;

And when the broad tent of the firmament

Arose on its airy spars,

I penciled the hue of its matchless blue,
And spangled it round with stars.