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Musicians call it the concord
Of óctaves lower and higher, Philosophers the sympathy
Of puppets on one wire.
Geologists find éven hard stone
Given to conglomerate, And not a botanist but knows
Each plant turns toward a mate;
All may be right or all be wrong
For ánything I know,
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 máll '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 óften 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,
Streams fást the magnetism.
Your work is done; your youth and maid
No more need of your care;
They are a wedded pair.
A doúble folly so they cooked
Some twenty years ago,
Ask nót, for I don't know;
But this I know, the recipe
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;
While you keep still looking so grave?”
"Excuse me, dear Vinegar-cruet," replied
Mustard-pót, "I 've been thinking this hour
Were you but a little less sour.”
TEN broad stéps there 's tó my ládder, Five on one side, five on th’ other;
Ón the first step síts a móther
Ón the sécond my heart trembles
Ón the third step Alma Mater,
On the fourth step the same young man Púts a gold ring on the finger
Kneeling bý him at the altar.
On the top step síts a fáther
Ón the first step down my ladder
On the sécond step dówn, a lády
Ón the third step down, a wrinkled
Ón the fourth step down, two ármchairs,
On the last step down, two sextons
Yé that haven't yet seen my ládder,
Ánd its five steps down, in shadow. Walking from FALKAU to TRYBERG in the Black FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 8-9, 1854.
UNDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS.
GAMBRINUS was a gallant king
Reigned once in Flanders old, He was the man invented beer
As Í '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,
Upon 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.