Come, jovial boys, crack up! crack up!
And fill again the maddening cup.

What though our wives sit quite alone,
And muse on hopes and pleasures gone?
Though bitter thoughts their bosoms burn,
The while they wait for our return
Let all that pass;

Come, fill the glass;

We'll drink to love that never dies,
Till from our breasts affection flies.

Crack up! crack up! come, fill again
The accursed cup with liquid fire;
And now, its contents let us drain
To sleeping babes and hoary sire;
To mother dear, though drowned in tears,
And bending with the weight of years.
Bid sorrow flee,

And drink with glee;

Though babes may need a father's care,
From wretchedness and want to save,
And though we bring the time-bleached hair
Of parents sorrowing to the grave,

Come, fill again the accursed cup,

And let us drain. Crack up! crack up!

STRANGULATION; OR, THE DISTILLER'S DISASTER.

A GRIST FROM JEMMY'S MILL, GROUND MAY 1st, 1845.

A NOTED distiller of Boston fell into one of his fermenting vats, a few days previous to the appearance of the following article, and was dragged from it by the hands of his workmen in the establishment, but for whose timely interference, he must have lost his life by strangulation.

Doctor. Jemmy, have you learned that a celebrated distiller fell into one of his fermenting vats, a few days since, and came near losing his life by strangulation?

Jemmy. Indaad, I did. I read it in the paper; and whin I told the matter to Michael McGowan's wife, she foch'd a scrame, and slapped her two big hands togither, and rin capering about the room like as if she'd been half mad. "What ails you?" said I. "What ails you?" said she, pouting out her lips, and spaking my own words in a kind of mockin way. "Botheration to ye! Doesn't them same distillers make the vile crathur that pits strangulation down the necks of paple more dacent and honest nor themselves? Didn't my own cousin Tim Taggerty · rest his sowl!-drink the liquor till it made him crazy entirely; and then put a rope on his neck, and hang up in the barn; and wasn't that strangulation? Didn't Betty Cragin, whin she was drunk, roll her baste of a carcass on her own swate baby, that wasn't more nor sax weeks old, and smother the life out of it? strangulation? And now, jist because this divilment got a small taste of his own in the papers, and make such a hellaballoo

What was it but the distiller of all midicin, they pit it

Dr. Hold, Jemmy! I have no time to hear more of Mistress McGowan's lecture on strangulation; but, as you seem to be quite interested in the matter, suppose you put the facts in your patent rhyme-grinder, and turn out something for the Journal.

Jem. Faix! I'll do it.

[He brings out the machine, and commences operations.]

I'll sing you a song that is rare and queer,
Of a nager that fell in a vat of beer,

Which was rendered so fine, as he slowly decayed,
That the liquor was praised,

Its price was much raised,

The business increased, and a fortune was made.

Dr. Jim, you make strange work. You were going to grind out a song from facts that occurred in this western world, and your very first verse is about an old affair that happened twenty years ago, on the other side of the Atlantic. Jem. Never mind, doctor, jewel. I'll come to it directly. [He turns again.]

"Ha! ha!" said his wife, "they will yet learn to fear usThese stiff-necked obstinate Jews:

Now go to the party with Ahasuerus,

Be cheerful, and banish the blues;
Come, hurry, my honey,

Drink wine, and be funny."

He went and, bad luck to him!-made such a bother,
He got himself hanged jist, instead of the other!

And he couldn't complain of the way it was done,

For they let down the drap on a plan of his own.

Dr. Worse and worse, Jemmy! You are farther from

your proper subject than before. You have wandered, in point of distance, as far as Persia; and as to time, you have made a jump backward of more than two thousand years. What next?

Jem. Troth, ye're mighty particular! If you don't be azy stoppin me, I won't grind at all, at all, and ye may turn yeʼrself.

Dr. Well, let go the crank, and I'll give you a specimen of my work, off hand.

[The doctor turns, while Jemmy looks on with amazement.]

The fire glowed bright beneath the still,
And fiercely boiled the foaming flood,
Destined the drunkard's veins to fill,

To scorch his brain and fire his blood.
The workmen cheerly plied their tasks,
When in the great distiller came
T' inspect the work; and now he asks,

"How boils the flood? How burns the flame?"

Vexed that the hell-broth cooks so slow,

He mounts the vat, with careless tread,

To stir the mixtures vile below,

But slips, and plunges over head!
Panting and gasping hard for breath,

He struggles with the damning tide,
And would have yielded there to death,
But helping hands were now applied,
Which dragged him from the foaming vat,
Resembling much a drowned wharf-rat.

Bedaubed with yeasty slime and foam,
Fragrant and dripping as he passed,
This great distiller sought his home
By sad experience taught at last
This truth, contained in holy writ:-
Who for his neighbor digs a pit,
Will some time tumble into it!

SELECTIONS FROM CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE

PRESS.

A BRIEF PLAN OF A TEMPERANCE CAMPAIGN.

THE following letter, addressed to Daniel Kimball, late editor of the Massachusetts Temperance Standard, and which appeared in the columns of that paper July 18, 1845, may interest the reader, as it expresses the author's views of the proper method of conducting a temperance campaign. The time and circumstances which called it forth the reader will gather from the letter itself.

FRIEND KIMBALL :

MANCHESTER, July 8, 1845.

You have doubtless, ere this, obtained from the New York papers an account of the State Temperance Convention, held at Albany, on the 25th of June; and so far as concerns the labor actually performed by that body, you have doubtless a more detailed account than I could give at this distance of time, as I took no notes of the proceedings. I wish, nevertheless, to convey to you, and, through the Standard, to others more immediately concerned, some impressions which that occasion made on my mind, in relation to the state of the temperance cause in New York, and its wants at the present crisis.

There will be, during the year, a great deal of discussion, in relation to the law which was passed by the New York legislature at its last session; leaving to the several towns and cities (except New York city) the decision of the question, in April, 1846, whether licenses shall, or shall not, be granted for the sale of intoxicating drinks. And yet I fear our friends will