One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly Young, and so fair!

O bed! O bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence.

Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square.

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched my eyeballs burn, :;:;:;:; I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging Zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, :;:;:;:; And turns me "dust to dust."

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks.

When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

Peace and rest at length have come All the day's long toil is past, And each heart is whispering, "Home, Home at last."

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms.

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark, And echo's answering sounds, All poets' wit hath ever writ In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Over the brink of it Picture it think of it, Dissolute man. Lave in it drink of it Then, if you can.

Oh! would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now And have a good cry!

It's very hard! Oh, Dick, my boy, It's very hard one can't enjoy A little private spouting; But sure as Lear or Hamlet lives, Up comes our master, Bounce! and gives The tragic Muse a routing.

Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast: It was the time of roses We pluck'd them as we pass'd.

Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till think of that who find life so sweet! She hates the smell of roses.

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky.

Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man, with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little pole-hills The faculties throw up like mole hills.

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.

The pea is but a wanton witch In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we'll be. A foe had better brave the de'il Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather bell.