They braced my aunt against a board,
To make her straight and tall;

They laced her up, they starved her down,
To make her light and small.

They pinched her feet, they singed her hair,
They screwed it up with pins ;-

O never mortal suffered more

In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,
My grandsire brought her back;
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth
Might follow on the track;)
"Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook
Some powder in his pan,

"What could this lovely creature do

Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,

Nor bandit cavalcade,

Tore from the trembling father's arms
His all-accomplished maid.

For her how happy had it been!
And heaven had spared to me

To see one sad, ungathered rose
On my ancestral tree.

COMIC MISERIES.

JOHN G. SAXE.

My dear young friend, whose shining wit

Sets all the room a-blaze,

Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"

For all your merry ways;

But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid, if you can,

It's such a very serious thing

To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,-
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,—
A lady does n't catch the point,
And begs you to explain—
Alas for one that drops a jest
And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy
With very special force,

To edify a clergyman

With suitable discourse,—

You think you 've got him-when he calls

A friend across the way,

And begs you'll say that funny thing

You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot
Into a neighbor's ears,

Who likes to give you credit for

The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,

The old authentic one,

Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While every body marvels why

Your mirth is under ban,—

They think your very grief " a joke,"

You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card

That bids you come and dine,

And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine),

You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,

And wonders what you 're thinking of,
And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends

A fancy-tale of woes

That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose-

A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,

And tells the town the pleasant news:
You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room a-blaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"

For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid, if you can,

It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!

IDÉES NAPOLÉONIENNES.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The impossibility of translating this now well-known expression (imperfectly rendered in a companion-work, "Ideas of Napoleonism"), will excuse the title and burden of the present ballad being left in the original French.-TRANS

LATOR

COME, listen all who wish to learn

How nations should be ruled,

From one who from his youth has been

In such-like matters school'd;

From one who knows the art to please,

Improve and govern men

Eh bien! Ecoutez, aux Idées,
Napoléoniennes !

To keep the mind intently fixed

On number One alone

To look to no one's interest,
But push along your own,
Without the slightest reference

To how, or what, or when-
Eh bien! c'est la première Idée
Napoléonienne.

To make a friend, and use him well,
By which, of course, I mean
To use him up-until he's drain'd
Completely dry and clean

Of all that makes him useful, and
To kick him over then
Without remorse-c'est une Idée

Napoléonienne.

To sneak into a good man's house
With sham credentials penn'd—
To sneak into his heart and trust,

And seem his children's friend-
To learn his secrets, find out where
He keeps his keys-and then
To bone his spoons-c'est une Idée
Napoléonienne.

To gain your point in view-to wade Through dirt, and slime, and bloodTo stoop to pick up what you want Through any depth of mud.

But always in the fire to thrust

Some helpless cat's-paw, when

Your chestnuts burn-c'est une Idée
Napoléonienne.

To clutch and keep the lion's share-
To kill or drive away

The wolves, that you upon the lambs
May, unmolested, prey—

To keep a gang of jackals fierce
To guard and stock your den,
While you lie down-c'est une Idée
Napoléonienne.

To bribe the base, to crush the good,
And bring them to their knees--
To stick at nothing, or to stick

At what or whom you please-
To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,
Forswear, and swear again-
To rise-Ah! voià des Idées
Napoléoniennes.

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND.

WILLIAM AYTOUN.

AIR" The days we went a-gipsying."

I WOULD all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;

For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;

No female face hath shown me grace

For many a bygone year.

But 'tis the most infernal bore,

Of all the bores I know,

To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;

Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:

Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.

Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,

Of all the bores I know,

To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.