I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale.

The G.o.d of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together!

My heart would be scot-free from cares, And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as gla.s.s, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me!

She loved like any thing.

But false as h.e.l.l, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her s.e.x must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru!

Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

_John Gay._

THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER

To Lake Aghmoogenegamook All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain.

"I am a traveller," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four."

He took a tavern-bed that night, And, with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun.

A week pa.s.sed on, and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum.

From thence he went to Absequoit, And there--quite tired of Maine-- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train.

Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place; And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace.

By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken.

Then _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green He travelled through the State; And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate.

Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down; To-day at Buzzard's Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at h.e.l.l Town.

At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came; And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest-game.

Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent.

From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay; Which having gained, he left the State, And took a southward way.

North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at h.e.l.l's Delight.

Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard, too, Good provender he found.

The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream.

But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wondering tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill.

At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With s.n.a.t.c.h It in the distance far, And Purgatory near.

But, spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore.

So back he went to Maine, straightway; A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE ZEALLESS XYLOGRAPHER

DEDICATED TO THE END OF THE DICTIONARY

A xylographer started to cross the sea By means of a Xanthic Xebec; But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee, And feared he was in for a wreck.

He tried to smile, but all in vain, Because of a Zygomatic pain; And as for singing, his cheeriest tone Reminded him of a Xylophone-- Or else, when the pain would sharper grow, His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo.

And so it is likely he did not find On board Xenodochy to his mind.

The fare was poor, and he was sure Xerofphagy he could not endure; Zoophagous surely he was, I aver, This dainty and starving Xylographer.

Xylophagous truly he could not be-- No sickly vegetarian he!

He'd have blubbered like any old Zeuglodon Had Xerophthalmia not come on.

And the end of it was he never again In a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main.

_Mary Mapes Dodge._