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I straightway called for ink and pen,

To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a load of guineas ten

I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma

(Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw,

What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no cash, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come,

To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home;

How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

La note," at times the guests will say,

I turn as white as cold boiled veal; I turn and look another way,

I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say,

“Good sir, I can not pay your bill :" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais,

And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

Ile thinks I am a Lord Anglais,

Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day

The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face

I blush as red as cochineal;
And think did he but know my case,

How changed he'd be, my host of Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze,

I perspirate from head to heel ; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise;

How can I, without cash, at Lille ?

I pass in sunshine burning hot

By cafés where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot,

A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick,

All girt around with guard and grille ? O, gracious gods, it makes me sick,

It is the prison-house of Lille!

O curséd prison strong and barred,

It does my very blood congeal ! I tremble as I pass

the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays,

I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways !

You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace

is

gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? I have no money, I lie in pawn,

A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,

And at a Popish altar kneel ?
O do not leave me in the lurch,-
I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille !

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,

Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops

The miserablest man in Lille.

And lol as I beheld with awe

A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real),
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma l-

It did ! and I had hope in Lille!

meal ;

’T was five o'clock, and I could eat,

Although I could not pay, my I hasten back into the street

Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

a

What see I on my table stand,

A letter with a well-kuown seal ? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,

To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille.”

I feel a choking in my throat,

I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is—it is-a ten pound note,

And I'm no more in pawn at Lille ! (He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to

the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS

LANTERN,

DEEP! I own I start at shadows,

Listen, I will tell you why; (Life itself is but a taper,

Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence,

I a radiant girl adored:
When she came, she saw, she conquered,

And by Cupid I was floored.

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“False, abandoned, Mandolina !

Fare thee well, for evermore! Vengeance !” shrieked I,“ vengeance! vengeance !"

And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning;

Mandolina staring sat,
Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled,

Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter,

On its road six weeks delayedWith a dozen re-directions

From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert !

Base suspicion's doubts resign; Double lights throw double shadows !

Mandolina-ever thine."

Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered,

“Not before to think of that!"And again I rushed excited

To the rail, without a hat.

“Mandolina! Mandolina !"

When her house I reached, I cried : “Pardon, dearest love!” she answered

“I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian,

And by Fate, my life was crossed; Wonder ye I start at shadows ?

Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

OLD Nick, who taught the village school,

Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule,

She was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,

Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life,

And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord

She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose !-and red

And white his face alternate grew ! “Less freedom, ma'am!”-Jane sighed and said,

Oh, dear! I did n't know 't was you !"

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