How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? O there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

_James Smith._

[Footnote 1: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his _Alice Fell_, and the greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."--_Edinburg Review._]

THE CANTELOPE

Side by side in the crowded streets, Amid its ebb and flow, We walked together one autumn morn; ('Twas many years ago!)

The markets blushed with fruits and flowers; (Both Memory and Hope!) You stopped and bought me at the stall, A spicy cantelope.

We drained together its honeyed wine, We cast the seeds away; I slipped and fell on the moony rinds, And you took me home on a dray!

The honeyed wine of your love is drained; I limp from the fall I had; The snow-flakes m.u.f.fle the empty stall, And everything is sad.

The sky is an inkstand, upside down, It splashes the world with gloom; The earth is full of skeleton bones, And the sea is a wobbling tomb!

_Bayard Taylor._

POPULAR BALLAD: "NEVER FORGET YOUR PARENTS"

A young man once was sitting Within a swell cafe, The music it was playing sweet-- The people was quite gay.

But he alone was silent, A tear was in his eye-- A waitress she stepped up to him, and Asked him gently why.

(Change to Minor)

He turned to her in sorrow and At first he spoke no word, But soon he spoke unto her, for She was an honest girl.

He rose up from the table In that elegant cafe, And in a voice replete with tears To her he then did say:

CHORUS

Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true, If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.

A hush fell on the laughing throng, It made them feel quite bad, For most of them was people, and Some parents they had had.

Both men and ladies did shed tears.

The music it did cease, For all knew he had spoke the truth By looking at his face.

(Change to Minor)

The waitress she wept bitterly And others was in tears It made them think of the old home They had not saw in years.

And while their hearts was heavy and Their eyes they was quite red.

This brave and honest boy again To them these words he said:

CHORUS

Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true, If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.

_Franklin P. Adams._

HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin, Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in; Her general form was German, By which I mean that you Her waist could not determine Within a foot or two.

And not only did she stammer, But she used the kind of grammar That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don't imagine I desire A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.

She was willing, she was active, She was sober, she was kind, But she _never_ looked attractive And she _hadn't_ any mind.

I knew her more than slightly, And I treated her politely When I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll, She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll, And threw with, much, composure A smallish rubber ball At an inoffensive osier By a little waterfall; But Matilda's way of throwing Was like other people's mowing, And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.

And, before her eyes astounded, On a fallen maple's trunk Ricochetted and rebounded In the rivulet, and sunk!

Matilda, greatly frightened, In her grammar unenlightened, Remarked, "Well now I ast yer, who'd 'er thunk?"

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.

He beheld her fright and frenzy And, her panic to dispel, On his knee by Miss Mackenzie He obsequiously fell.

With quite as much decorum As a speaker in a forum He started in his history to tell.

"Fair maid," he said, "I beg you do not hesitate or wince, If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince; For a fairy, old and vicious, An enchantment round me spun!"

Then he looked up, unsuspicious, And he saw what he had won, And in terms of sad reproach, he Made some comments, _sotto voce_, (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold; "I _never_! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain't you awful bold!"

Just a glance he paused to give her, And his head was seen to clutch, Then he darted to the river, And he dived to beat the Dutch!

While the wrathful maiden panted "I don't think he was enchanted!"

(And he really didn't look it overmuch!)