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“I'll hear no more," Dame Fortune cried,

And rolled off on her wheel;
“Ungrateful! who from me hast had

A triple share of weal.

“Happy the man who has one friend,

And thóu own'st thou hast three.”
But I cried after her: “Forgive;

I meant not to tax thee,

"Or count my friends, the many friends

I love, and who love me;
I did but boast an idle boast

My books were read by three."
LEGHORN, Febr. 23, 1862.


Louis Nap, I 've heard say, 's the main spring that makes go
The great clock of France, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
Balderdash! Louis Nap 's but the hour-hand that shows
How fast or how slow the great clock of France goes ;
An till the clock strikes, his friend Victor must wait,
Like a wolf looking in from the wrong side the gate
On a savoury bone in the house lapdog's paws,
Whilst the slaver runs down on the ground from his jaws.
God keep the gate shut, make the good cause his own,
And save from the robber both lapdog and bone!


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*Two hundred men and eighteen killed

For want of a second door!
Ay, for with two doors, each ton coal

Had cost one penny more.

And what is it else makes England great,

At home, by land, by sea, But her cheap coal, and eye's tail turned

Toward strict economy?

But if a slate falls off the roof

And kills a passer-by,
Or if a doctor's dose too strong

Makes some half-dead man die,


* At ten o'clock on the morning of Thursday, January 16, 1862, the great iron beam of the steam - engine which worked the pumps of the Hester coal pit near Hartley in Northumberland, snapped across, and a portion of the beam, 40 tons in weight, fell into the shaft, tearing away the boarded lining so that the earthy sides collapsed and fell in, filling up the shaft in such a manner as not only, to cut off all communication between the interior of the pit and the outer world, but entirely to obstruct all passage of pure air into, and of foul air out of, the pit. All the persons who were at work below at the time, two hundred and eighteen in number, were of course suffocated, nor was it until the seventh day after the accident that access could be had to the interior of the pit, or anything,

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For, God be praised! the chance is small

That either you or I Should come, for want of a second door,

In a coal pit to die.

Besides, 'twould cost a thousand times

As much, or something more, To make to every pit of coal

A second, or safety door,

As all the shrouds and coffins cost

For those who perish now For want of a second door, and that is

No trifle, you 'll allow;


beyond the mere fact of their entombment, ascertained concerning the helpless and unfortunate victims of that 'auri sacra fames' which so generally, so heartlessly, so pertinaciously refuses the poor workers in the coal mines of England, even the sad resource of a second staple or air shaft. See the Illustrated London News of Jan. 25, and Febr. 1, 1862.

And trade must live, though now and then

A man or two may die;
So merry sing "God bless the Queen,"

And long live you and I;

And, Jenny, let each widow have

A cup of congo strong, And every orphan half a cup,

And so I end my song,

With prayer to God to keep coal cheap,

Both cheap and plenty too,
And if the pit 's a whole mile deep,

What is it to me or you?

For though we 're mortal too, no doubt,

And Death for us his sithe
Has ready still, the chance is small

We ever die of stithe.

And if we do, our gracious Queen

Will, sure, a telegram send,
To say how sore she grieves for us

And our untimely end;

And out of her own privy purse

A sovereign down will pay, To have us decently interred

And put out of the way;

And burial service shall for us

In the churchyard be read, And more bells rung and more hymns sung

Than if we had died in bed;

For such an accident as this

May never occur again,
And till it does, one door 's enough

For pumps, air, coal, and men;

And should it occur which God forbid !

And stifle every soul,
Remember well, good Christians all,

Not one whit worse the coal.


WHEN I was young I had so much of life,
I set small value on it, and cared only
For that of which I had but little riches.
Now I am old and rich, I little care
For that of which I 've much, and set all value
On that of which I have little, and which grows,
Visibly, with each sunset, less and less.
So it 's no matter whether young or old,
Or rich or poor, there's something still to love,
Something to allure us on to act and suffer,

And play our double part out to the end.

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