He was not always right, 'tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed, 'Twas certain that he wept; And he would lie awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o'erthrew But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,-- What hero ever fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that sealed his death Deprived him of his life.

_Gilles Menage._

THE BELLS

Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E, And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D.

Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

Oh, the bells of h.e.l.l go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you, but not for me.

The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling For there I soon shall be.

Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.

No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

_Unknown._

TAKINGS

He took her fancy when he came, He took her hand, he took a kiss, He took no notice of the shame That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons, He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive, He took her master's silver spoons, And after that he took his leave.

_Thomas Hood, Jr._

A BACHELOR'S MONO-RHYME

Do you think I'd marry a woman That can neither cook nor sew, Nor mend a rent in her gloves Or a tuck in her furbelow; Who spends her time in reading The novels that come and go; Who tortures heavenly music, And makes it a thing of woe; Who deems three-fourths of my income Too little, by half, to show What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her, 'Mid the belles of Rotten Row; Who has not a thought in her head Where thoughts are expected to grow, Except of trumpery scandals Too small for a man to know?

Do you think I'd wed with _that_, Because both high and low Are charmed by her youthful graces And her shoulders white as snow?

Ah no! I've a wish to be happy, I've a thousand a year or so, 'Tis all I can expect That fortune will bestow!

So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!

You're not for me, I trow, To-day, nor yet to-morrow, No, no! decidedly no!

_Charlts Mackay._

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING

How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers--folks that fish With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home, By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce Who borrows--never lends; Yon work, in twenty volumes, once Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut From view--'tis all in vain; They're gone--and though the leaves are "cut"

They never "come again."

For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt; But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra guilt.

A circulating library Is mine--my birds are flown; There's one odd volume left, to be Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon."

My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat, But "Moore" was still the cry; And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"

They swallowed up my "Pye."

O'er everything, however slight, They seized some airy trammel; They s.n.a.t.c.hed my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night, And pocketed my "Campbell."

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, Like Hamlet's, backward go; And as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."

I wondered into what balloon My books their course had bent; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my "Marvell" went.

My "Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker; And once, while I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying o'er the fire one day My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke; They bore my "Colman" clean away, And carried off my "c.o.ke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent's worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"

As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated; But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself Is excommunicated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave Is sunk, to swell the ravage; And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save 'Twas mine to lose--a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"

My "Bunyan" has been gone.