|The Envoy|

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses b.u.t.toning there.

_E. H. Palmer._

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are decaivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go;-- If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel, Sweet Mary?" says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!"

"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see: Since my parents are both so conthrairy, You'd better ask _me_."

_Samuel Lover._

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like Pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

There's ne'er a lady in the land That's half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Sat.u.r.day and Monday; For then I'm dressed, all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh, then I shall have money; I'll h.o.a.rd it up and, box and all, I'll give it to my honey; Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; For she's the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for her I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, Oh, then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley.

_Henry Carey._

FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC

THE DISCONSOLATE

My heart will break--I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favorite--he Who seemed my own through good and ill-- Has basely turned his back on me.

THE COMFORTER

Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head before, And now he's as he ought to be.

_Laman Blanchard._

PET'S PUNISHMENT

O, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I'd catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses.

But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty jewelled fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout, Like many pert young misses, I'd wind my arm her waist about, And punish her--with kisses!

_J. Ashby-Sterry._

AD CHLOEN, M.A.

FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving l.u.s.trous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

_Mortimer Collins._

CHLOE, M.A.