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Musicians call it the concórd

Of octaves lower and higher, Philosophers the sympathy

Of puppets on one wire.

Geólogists find éven hard stone
Given to conglomerate,

And nót a botanist but knows

Each plant turns toward a mate;

All may be right or all be wrong
For anything I know,
Beyond the simple matter of fact
It's not for me to go.

They 've seen each other at a friend's;
Well done! you 've now to choose
A pláce convenient to them both
For fréquent rendezvous.

The mall 's too public, and almost
As public evening Tea;
'Twére a real pity your good work
Should spoiled by tattling be;

Bút in a Propaganda school

As often as they please

They'll come together, youth and maid, In safety and at ease.

Here while he teaches little boys

She girls their catechism,

From hím to her from her to him

Streams fást the magnetism.

Your work is done; your youth and maid

No more need of your care;

Left to kind heaven and to themselves
They are a wedded pair.

A double folly so they cooked
Some twenty years ago,

But why so called the excellent dish
Ask nót, for I don't know;

But this I know, the recipé

Succeéds even in these days,

And mérits of all culinary

Connoisseurs the praise.

Walking across the mountains from CORTINA in VAL AMPEZZO to PREDAZZO in VAL FIEME, July 24-26, 1854.

SAID Vinegar-cruet to Mustard-pot once: -
"I wish you knew how to behave;

What pleasure can any one take in the feast,
While you keep still looking so grave?"

"Excuse me, dear Vinegar-cruet," replied

Mustard-pót, "I've been thinking this hour
How happy we 'd áll be and merry the feast
Were you but a little less sour."

OPPENAU, in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 12, 1854.

TÉN broad steps there 's tó my ládder,

Five on one side, five on th' other;
Ón one side I moúnt my ládder,
Ánd come down it on the other.

Ón the first step síts a móther
Rócking with her foót a crádle;
Listen and you'll hear her singing
"Húsh-a báby, báby húsh-a."

Ón the sécond mý heart trémbles
Tó see seated á schoolmaster
Slapping learning with a lóng cane
Ínto á refract'ry púpil.

Ón the third step Álma Máter,
Stánding in the midst of dóctors,
Púts a red gown ón the shoulders.
Óf a young man leárned and módest.

Ón the fourth step the same young man Púts a góld ring on the finger

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Ón the tóp step sits a father

Ín the evening by the fireside,

Children round his knees are playing, Móther's washing úp the teá-things.

Ón the first step down my ládder
Sít a géntlemán and lády,

Bóth with spéctaclés, and reáding
Hé the news, she Mrs. Trollope.

Ón the second step down, a lády
Ánd a géntlemán sit trýing

Át the mirror, hé a brówn scratch,
Shé a ghastly rów of white teeth.

Ón the third step down, a wrinkled
Withered gránny knitting sócks sits,
And a pálsied óld man shákes out
His pipe's ashes on the táble.

Ón the fourth step down, two armchairs,
Óne each side the fire, stand émpty;
Ón two tables át two bedsides
Lábelled phíals strewed aboút lie.

On the last step down, two séxtons
Side by side two gráves are sódding;
Listen and you'll hear them clapping
Thé soft hillocks with their shóvels.

Yé that haven't yet seen my ládder,

Cóme look at it where it stands there
With its five up steps in súnlight,

And its five steps dówn, in shadow.

Walking from FALKAU to TRYBERG in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 8-9, 1854.

BEERDRINKER'S SONG,

UNDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS.

GAMBRÍNUS was a gallant king
Reigned once in Flanders old,
He was the man invented beer
As I've been often told.

Of mált and hops he brewed his beer
And made it strong and good,

And some of it he bottled up

And some he kept in wood.

The golden crown upon his head,
The beérjug in his hand,
Beerdrinkers, see before ye here
Your bénefactor stand.

Beerlóvers, paint him on your shields,
Upón your beérpots paint
"Twere well a pope did never worse
Than máke Gambrinus Saint.

And now fill every man his pot
Till the foam óverflows;

No higher praise ásks the good old king
Than fróth upon the nose.

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