Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek: To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal came, Its splendor almost struck him dumb.

"I say, whose house is that there here?"

"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."-- "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he 's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marle's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?"

"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."

"His? What the land and houses too?

The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw!

I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?"

"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."

"What, he again? Upon my life!

A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.

"Je vous n'entends paw."--"what is he gone?

Wealth fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!

His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."

C. Dibdin.

CCCLXIV.

THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't approve this hawid waw; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and drums are such a baw-- Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; But why must all the vulgah crowd Pawsist in spawting uniforms In cullaws so extremely loud?

And then the ladies--precious deahs!-- I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; Bai Jove! I really have my feahs They wathah like the howid wow!

To hear the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the b.l.o.o.d.y wing, Of waw and all its dawty wark?-- It does n't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gween's last night, To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz, And found her making--cwushing sight!-- The weddest kind of flannel shirts!

Of cawce I wose and saught the daw, With fewy flashing from my eyes!

I can't approve this hawid waw;-- Why don't the parties compromise?

Vanity Fair.

CCCLXV.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER.

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low,"

How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim, Could tell by tasting, just the spot, And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"-- After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,--for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,--the pedler's son; And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck--(a parsnip bed),-- And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir, please to taste."

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,-- "Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"

J. T. Fields.

CCCLXVI.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

It was an honest fisherman, I knew him pa.s.sing well; And he lived by a little pond, Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said He never had a wish; No school to him was worth a fig, Except a school of fish.

In short, this honest fisherman, All other tools forsook; And though no vagrant man was he, He lived by hook and crook.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth, Nor cared about a name; For though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame!

To charm the fish he never spoke, Although his voice was fine; He found the most convenient way Was just to drop a line!

And many a gudgeon of the pond, If they could speak to-day, Would own, with grief, the angler had A mighty taking way!

One day, while fishing on a log, He mourned his want of luck,-- When suddenly, he felt a bite, And jerking--caught a duck!

Alas! that day this fisherman Had taken too much grog; And being but a landsman, too, He could n't keep the log!

'T was all in vain with might and main He strove to reach the sh.o.r.e; Down, down he went, to feed the fish He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict, that 'T was nothing else but gin, That caused the fisherman to be So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim, And said the angler's slaughter, To be exact about the fact, Was clearly gin-and-water.

The moral of this mournful tale, To all is plain and clear,-- That drinking habits bring a man Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"