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GOING INTOBREECHES.— Miss Lamb.
Joy to Philip, he this day Has his long coats cast away, And (the childish season gone) Puts the manly breeches on. Officer on gay parade,
Eed coat in his first cockade, Bridegroom in his wedding trim, Birth-day beau surpassing him, Never did with conscious gait Strut about in half the state, Or the pride, (yet free from sin,) Of my little manikin;Never was there pride or bliss Half so rational as his. Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, — Philip's limbs have got their freedom,— He can run, or he can ride, And do twenty things beside, Which his petticoats forbade;Is he not a happy lad?
Now he 's under other banners, He must leave his former manners;Bid adieu to female games, And forget their very names. Puss in corners, hide and seek, Sports for girls and punies weak!Baste the bear he now may play at, Leap-frog, football, sport away at, Show his skill and strength at cricket, Mark his distance, pitch his wicket,
Run abo ut in winter's snow Till his cheeks and fingers glow,
Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
LADY MOON. — Milnes.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
All who love me.
Resting to sleep?
Wishing to weep?
You are too bold;
And do as I 'm told.
Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All who love me.
THE ORPHAN BROTHER. — Miss Lamb.
Q, Hush, my little baby brother;
Sleep, my love, upon my knee; What though, dear child, we 've lost our mother,
That can never trouble thee.
You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
What can you know of our loss? The house is full enough of sorrow, -—
Little .baby, don't be cross.
Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
Hush, my baby bird, lie still; — He's quiePnow, he does not move;
Fast asleep is little Will.
My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.
ULYSSES' DOG.— Pope.
When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
b THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;The faithful dog alone his master knew;Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay And, though e'en then expiring on the plain, Touched with resentment of ungrateful man, And longing to behold his ancient lord again. Him when he saw, he rose, and crawled to meet, —
3T was all he could, — and fawned, and kissed his feet, Seized with dumb joy; then, falling by his side, Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died.
THE COMPLAINTS OP THE POOR. — Southey.
"And wherefore do the poor complain?"
The rich man asked of me.
"And I will answer thee."
'T was evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bareheaded man, His locks were few and white;
'T was bitter keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
To ask for charity.
We met a young, barefooted child,
I asked her what she did abroad
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
And another at her breast.
I asked her why she loitered there,
She turned her head and bade the child,
She told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
Was begging back her way.
I turned me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he; — "You asked me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee."