And the household brutes are wild.

If the veriest cur would lick my hand, 1 could love it like a child!

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, At night, to make me madder,—

And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder;—

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot,

And look at the rope and ladder !

For hanging looks sweet,—but, alas! in vain,

My desperate fancy begs,

I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,

And drink it to the dregs,

For there is not another man alive,

In the world, to pull my legs!

THE SEASON.

SUMMER'S gone and over!
Fogs are falling down;
And with russet tinges
Autumn's doing brown.

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Round the tops of houses,
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.

Skies, of fickle temper,

Weep by turns, and laugh-

Night and Day together
Taking half-and-half.

So September endeth—
Cold, and most perverse-
But the Month that follows,
Sure will pinch us worse!

LOVE.

O LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits;

A player, masquerading many parts

In life's odd carnival;-a boy that shoots, From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion-partly false-part realA marriageable maiden's "beau ideal.”

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering?

Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool? A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart-like minepoor bewilder'd maid, making so sad

A

A necklace of her garters-fell design!

A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O Love!--but whither, now? forgive me, pray; I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

AN OLD BALLAD.

YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,

And taken off her elf,

She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow;

And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see;"
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hard-ship that must be !

"Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But Oh!-I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furl'd.

But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she got on,

He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian-name was John.

"Oh, Sally Brown, Oh, Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so,
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"

Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happen'd in his birth,
At forty-odd befell:

They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

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!

Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, "They're only pegs:
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours,
When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;