Such things are not surely the best O dear! what a beautiful flash! How it shone through the window and door! We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, When the woman falls through with the floor! There! there! what a volley of flame, And then suddenly all is obscured!Well-I'm glad in my heart that I came; But I hope the poor man is insured! THE VOLUNTEER. 'TWAS in that memorable year To make sad widows of our wives, When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, And heads were dredged with flour, I 'listed in the Lawyers' Corps, One dreary day—a day of dread, About the hour of six, (the morn And I were breaking fast,) There came a loud and sudden sound, That struck me all aghast! A dismal sort of morning roll, Although it was no skin of mine, My jaws with utter dread enclosed And terror locked them up so tight, All through my bread and tongue at once, My hand that held the teapot fast, Till both my hose were marked with tea, I felt my visage turn from red And looking forth with anxious eye, I saw our melancholy corps Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seemed very loth The captain marched as mourners march, Like corpses in the Serpentine, But while I watched, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March dust. Quoth I, 'Since Fate ordains it so, I cared not to abandon; Our hearths and homes are always things That patriots make a stand on. 'The fools that fight abroad for home,' The mirror here confirmed me this For there, where I was wont to shave, And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his cronies No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies. A horrid sight it was, and sad, Put on my crimson livery, My helmet on-ah me! it felt Like any felon's cap. My plume seemed borrowed from a hearse, And undertaker's crest; My epaulettes like coffin-plates; My belt so heavy pressed, Four pipeclay cross-roads seemed to lie At once upon my breast. My brazen breastplate only lacked A little heap of salt, To make me like a corpse full dressed, Preparing for the vault To set up what the Poet calls My everlasting halt. This funeral show inclined me quite To peace:-and here I am! Whilst better lions go to war, Enjoying with the lamb A lengthened life, that might have been A martial epigram. THE WIDOW. ONE widow at a grave will sob If four should meet by any chance, To have a rubber in a trice- From Passion's eye, as Moore would say, Still Widow Cross went twice a week, And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy 'Twas nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve |