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Such things are not surely the best
From a two-storey window to throw-
She might save a good iron-bound chest,
For there's plenty of people below!

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
France threatened to put off in
Flat-bottomed boats, intending each
To be a British coffin,

To make sad widows of our wives,
And every babe an orphan:-

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,

And heads were dredged with flour,

I 'listed in the Lawyers' Corps,
Against the battle hour;
A perfect Volunteer-for why?
I brought my 'will and power.'

One dreary day—a day of dread,
Like Cato's, over-cast-

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,
That was not to be eaten :

Although it was no skin of mine,
But parchment that was beaten,
I felt tattooed through all my flesh,
Like any Otaheitan.

My jaws with utter dread enclosed
The morsel I was munching,

And terror locked them up so tight,
My very teeth went crunching

All through my bread and tongue at once,
Like sandwich made at lunching.

My hand that held the teapot fast,
Stiffened, but yet unsteady,
Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'er
The cup in one long eddy,

Till both my hose were marked with tea,
As they were marked already.

I felt my visage turn from red
To white-from cold to hot;
But it was nothing wonderful
My colour changed, I wot,
For, like some variable silks,
I felt that I was shot.

And looking forth with anxious eye,
From my snug upper storey,

I saw our melancholy corps

Going to beds all gory;

The pioneers seemed very loth
To axe their way to glory.

The captain marched as mourners march,
The ensign too seemed lagging,
And many more, although they were
No ensigns, took to flagging-

Like corpses in the Serpentine,
Methought they wanted dragging.

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,
Our foe the coast must land on;'
I felt so warm beside the fire

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,'
Thought I, 'may get a wrong one;
Let those that have no home at all
Go battle for a long one.'

The mirror here confirmed me this
Reflection, by a strong one:

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,
To see the grisly chap

Put on my crimson livery,
And then begin to clap

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
A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by-and-by.
If three should come together--why,
Three widows are good company!

If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,

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To have a rubber in a trice-
But five will up and have a dance!
Poor Mrs. C-(why should I not
Declare her name?-her name was Cross)
Was one of those the 'common lot'
Had left to weep 'no common loss;'
For she had lately buried then
A man, the very best of men,'
A lingering truth, discovered first
Whenever men are at the worst.'
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep:
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect 'veil of tears.'
Though ever since she lost ' her prop
And stay-alas! he wouldn't stay-
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop

From Passion's eye, as Moore would say,
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It looked so very like a spite-
He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if to 'wet a widow's cheek,'

And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy

'Twas nothing but a make-believe,

She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seemed to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye-

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