The Happy Man

His mind was on devotion bent;

He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell

He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,

And never any physic took

But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train
Whene'er he walked before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;

And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows

That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,

No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amaze, and much delight:

He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

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They liked him much-so it appears
Most plainly-who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;

Yet no opponents he o'erthrew

But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,-
What hero ever fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death
Deprived him of his life.

Gilles Ménage.

THE BELLS

Oн, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E,
And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D.
Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N
And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

A Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.

The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling
For there I soon shall be.

Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.

No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling
But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

817

Unknown.

TAKINGS

He took her fancy when he came,
He took her hand, he took a kiss,

He took no notice of the shame
That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons,

He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive,
He took her master's silver spoons,
And after that he took his leave.

Thomas Hood, Jr.

A BACHELOR'S MONO-RHYME

Do you think I'd marry a woman
That can neither cook nor sew,
Nor mend a rent in her gloves
Or a tuck in her furbelow;
Who spends her time in reading
The novels that come and go;
Who tortures heavenly music,

And makes it a thing of woe;
Who deems three-fourths of my income
Too little, by half, to show

What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her,
'Mid the belles of Rotten Row;

Who has not a thought in her head

Where thoughts are expected to grow,

Except of trumpery scandals

Too small for a man to know?

Do you think I'd wed with that,
Because both high and low
Are charmed by her youthful graces
And her shoulders white as snow?
Ah no! I've a wish to be happy,
I've a thousand a year or so,
'Tis all I can expect

That fortune will bestow!

So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!

You're not for me, I trow,

To-day, nor yet to-morrow,

No, no! decidedly no!

Charles Mackay.

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING

How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers-folks that fish
With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome,
But never read it through;

They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.

For pamphlets lent I look around,

For tracts my tears are spilt;

But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra guilt.

The Art of Book-Keeping

A circulating library

Is mine-my birds are flown; There's one odd volume left, to be Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my "Spenser " quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my

My "Hall" and "Hill

"Bacon."

were levelled flat,

But "Moore" was still the cry;

And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"
They swallowed up my "Pye."

O'er everything, however slight,

They seized some airy trammel;

They snatched my Hogg" and "Fox" one night,
And pocketed my "Campbell."

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last,

Like Hamlet's, backward go;

And as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my "Rowe."

I wondered into what balloon

My books their course had bent; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my "Marvell" went.

My "Mallet" served to knock me down,
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying o'er the fire one day
My "Hobbes " amidst the smoke;
They bore my "Colman" clean away,
And carried off my "Coke."

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