Yet their country long shall mourn In that fierce and fatal charge, ALEXANDER B. MEEK. The Pauper's Drive. THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot- The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none- To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns ! Florence Vane. I LOVED thee long and dearly, My life's bright dream and early I renew in my fond vision My hopes and thy derision, The ruin, lone and hoary, Where thou didst hark my story, That spot, the hues elysian I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder! Lieth the green sod under; And it boots not to remember To quicken love's pale ember, The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. The Dule 's i' this Bonnet o' Mine. THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine: For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t' other day (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th` well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will! When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between! An' aw durst n't look up in his face, There's never a mortal con tell But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung: For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrong; Though it is n't a thing one should own, Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done!” Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon: Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel: Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!” EDWIN WAUGH. Abraham Lincoln. FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity or people's pain, Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you? Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, How humble, yet how hopeful he could be ; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, |