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“Hurrah! hurrah!" the conquering Reapers cry.
There 's nothing for the brave, left, but to die.
Vae victis! still, whoe'er the victi be,
Broad Wheatland's sons or Rome's best chivalry;
Nor ever gospel truer than the word

By Brennus preached and Brennus' conquering sword. [Walking from BIBIENA over the Consuma to PONTASSIEVE near FLORENCE,

July 4, 1865.]

CATCH

FOR A PARTY OF TOURISTS DISAPPOINTED

OF BEDS IN THE INN OF

BELVEDERE, IN THE PASS BETWEEN LA VALTELLINA AND VAL CAMONICA,

AND DRINKING TILL A LATE HOUR IN THE ARBOUR IN FRONT OF THE INN.

THEY 'll not let us in, they vow and swear;
Ah! little they know, how little we care;
Our sleep will be sweeter here in the fresh air,
And every one of us will have to spare
What his bed would have cost, a fiorino or pair;

Ancor un boccale, camerier

For, every apple

it has a core;
And every heart

it has a sore;
And every sky - it has a cloud;
And every wind at times pipes loud;

So push the bottle round, boys,
Take pleasure where it 's found, boys,
Let mirth and song resound, boys,
And Care in wine be drowned, boys,
And Joy our king be crowned, boys,

Then where most flowers abound, boys,
At ease stretched on the ground, boys,
We 'll sleep till morning, sound, boys,
So push the bottle round, boys,
So push the bottle round, boys.

POET'S verse, I 've heard it said,
By the file is polished.
Pshaw! the file does but make rough
Scrapes and scratches the best stuff.
Nothing poet's verse so well
Polishes as poet's knell: -
“Ding dong bell. The poet 's dead !"

Poet's verse is polished.
CHRISTIANSTRASSE, DRESDEN, Dec. 24, 1865.]

HAPPY the man who sees the world

As it neither was nor is
Nor ever shall be! optimist

High honored name is his.

But who the world sees as it is

And was and still shall be
What name is bad enough for him ?

Vile pessimist is he.
[STRUVESTRASSE, DRESDEN, Jan. 19, 1866.]

“Huic monstro Volcanus erat pater; illius atros
Ore vomens ignis, magna se mole ferebat.

Ille autem
Faucibus ingentem fumum, mirabile dictu,
Evomit, involvitque domum caligine caeca,
Prospectum eripiens oculis, glomeratque sub antro
Fumiferam noctem commixtis igne tenebris.
Non tulit Alcides animis."

I AM the pink of courtesy

As I smoke my cigar,
And whiff and puff, and spit about,

And near, am smelt, and far.

Yet come not near, sweet ladies dear,
If

you 'd not burn your clothes; See how the sparks fly from the quid

Sticks out below my nose.

I vow and swear I take all care

To save your crinolines,
But sparks will fly, and fire will burn,

Were ye all sceptered queens.

The smell is not of violets,

I never will deny, And delicate olfactories

Will do well to fight shy,

And keep full six yards off from me

Here in wide open street,
And quick let both the sashes down,

In steamcoach when we meet.

There's not a morning comes, but I

Take pains to brush away From coat, necktie and gloves, the stale

Odour of yesterday;

In spite of all my pains, I own,

Some hangs about me still, But, well I know, so good your hearts,

Ye will not take it ill.

You 're bound in love, in duty bound,

So much from us to bear, The smell of a cigar will not

Weigh in the scale one hair.

But that we should the same from you

Take patiently in turn,
And only love you all the more,

The more our clothes ye burn,

The more of yesterday's cigar

Your silks are redolent,
The more reichsthaler, every year,

Are in the luxus spent,

The more your lips are red and swelled,

The less your breath is sweet That is a creed I never held,

Since first I strode the street.

A schoolboy rule is tit for tat,

Not fit for ladies' use,
And that good sauce for gander is

What good sauce is for goose.

For though your woman's stomach 's made

Of the same stuff as ours,
And thirsts and hungers, every day,

At the same stated hours,

Yet kindly Nature has on you,

So much the weaker sex, Bestowed immunity from qualms

Which mightiest heroes vex;

And you can keep your spirits up,

And healthy appetite sound, Without one whiff of a cigar

The whole, long twelvemonth round.

Favored of heaven, ye know not what

He bears, the wretched man, Who, with bare five cigars a day,

Must put up as he can;

Who has not his Havana fresh,

To keep him in right tune, Before and after every meal,

Morning, and night, and noon;

One to enable him his eyes

To open to the light,
And, when that 's done, another one, .

And so on until night;

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