Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market-woman, careful

Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot
Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,

Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges,

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale;

Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the Rail!

John G. Saxe.

ECHO

I ASKED of Echo, t'other day

(Whose words are often few and funny), What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,-" Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply,-"Nary flirt!"

Song

What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,-"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,-"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart intwined about
With Cupid's dear delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,-"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-"Take her!"

751

John G. Saxe.

SONG

ECHO, tell me, while I wander

O'er this fairy plain to prove him,
If my shepherd still grows fonder,
Ought I in return to love him?

Echo: Love him, love him!

If he loves, as is the fashion,

Should I churlishly forsake him?
Or in pity to his passion,

Fondly to my bosom take him?
Echo: Take him, take him!

Thy advice then, I'll adhere to,
Since in Cupid's chains I've led him;
And with Henry shall not fear to
Marry, if you answer, "Wed him!"
Echo: Wed him, wed him!

Joseph Addison.

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN

IN THE DORIC MANNER

Shepherd. ECHO, I ween, will in the woods reply,
And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?

Echo.

Try.

Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express?

Press.

Before.

Echo.
Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before?
Echo.
Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address?
Echo.
A dress.
Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore?
Echo.

Liar.

A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her.

Her deer.

Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear?
Echo.
Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under?
Echo.
Keep her under.
Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier?
Echo.

Beer.

Shepherd. What must I do so women will be kind?

Echo.

Be kind.

Lay of Ancient Rome

Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross?
Echo.
Be cross.

Wind.

753

Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind?
Echo.
Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows?
Echo.
Blows.
Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her?
Echo.
Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger?
Echo.
Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell
What woman is and how to guard her well.

Echo.

Bang her.

Hang her.

He often went on sprees

And said, on starting homus, "Hic labour-opus est,

Oh, where's my hic-hic-domus?"

Although he lived in Rome,-
Of all the arts the middle-

He was, (excuse the phrase,)
A horrid individ'l;

Ah, what a different thing

Was the homo (dative, hominy)

Of far away B. C.

From us of Anno Domini.

Thomas R. Ybarra.

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;

Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For though as drunk as David's sow
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,

If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see

The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.