When I spoke with admiration
Of St. Peter's mighty dome,
He remarked, ""Tis really nothing
To the sights we 'ave at 'ome."
And declared upon his honor-
Though of course 'twas very queer-
That he doubted if the Romans
'Ad the hart of making beer!

Then we talked of other countries,
And he said that he had heard
That Hamericans spoke Hinglish,
But he deemed it quite habsurd;
Yet he felt the deepest hinterest
In the missionary work,

And would like to know if Georgia
Was in Boston or New York?
When I left the man-in-gaiters,
He was grumbling, o'er his gin,
At the charges of the hostess
Of that famous Flemish inn;
And he looked a very Briton,
(So, methinks, I see him still),
So he pocketed the candle

That was mentioned in the bill!

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER.

J. G. SAXE.

An attorney was taking a turn,
In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half a crown in his purse.

And thus, as lie wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself.

"Unfortunate man that I am!

I've never a client but grief;
The case is, I've no case at all,
And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain,

Expecting an opening to find,

Where an honest young lawyer might gain Some reward for the toil of his mind.

"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have causes to plead,
While I have to plead for a case.

"Oh, how can a modest young man

E'er hope for the smallest progression

The profession already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession !"

While thus he was strolling around,

His eye accidentally fell

On a very deep hole in the ground,

And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat

On the curbstone the space of a minute, Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!" And in less than a jiffy was in it!'

Next morning twelve citizens came

('Twas the coroner bade them attend), To the end that it might be determined

How the man had determined his end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse;
"A lawyer? Alas!" said another,
"Undoubtedly died of remorse!"

A third said, "He knew the deceased,
An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,

'Twas no doubt for the want of a cause.'

The jury decided, at length,

After solemnly weighing the matter,
That the lawyer was drowned, because
He could not keep his head above water!

SCHNITZERL'S PHILOSOPEDE.

C. G. LELAND.

Herr Schnitzerl make a philosopede,
Von of de pullyest kind ;

It vent mitout a vheel in front,
And hadn't none pehind.
Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough,
Und it vent as sure as ecks,

For he shtraddled on de axle dree
Mit de vheel petween his lecks.

Und ven he vant to shtart id off
He paddlet mit his veet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast

Dat every dings he peat.

He run her on der Broader shtreedt,
He shkeeted like der vind,

Hei! how he bassed de vancy crabs,
And lef dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags

Pooled oop to see him bass;

De Deutschers all erstannished saidt:

Potztanzend! Was is das?

Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed
On-mit a gashtly smile;

He titn't tooch de dirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.

Oh, vot ish all dis earthly pliss?
Oh,
vot ish man's soocksess?

Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish hobbiness?

Ve find a pank-note in de shtreedt.

Next dings der pank is preak;

Ve falls, and knocks our outsides in,

矍 Ven ve a ten shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein

On his philosopede.

His

eet both shlipped outsiderward shoost

at his extra shpeed.

He felled oopon der vheel of course;

De vheel like blitzen flew ;

Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact

For it shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede,

Id cot so shkared, men say,

It pounded onward till it vent

Ganz teufelwards afay.

Boot vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's soul?

Vhere dos his shpirit pide?

In Himmel troo de entiess plue,
It takes a medeor ride!

THE MOURNER A LA MODE.

J. G. SAXE.

I saw her last night at a party
(The elegant party at Mead's),
And looking remarkably hearty

For a widow so young in her weeds;

Yet I know she was suffering sorrow

Too deep for the tongue to expressOr why had she chosen to borrow

So much from the language of dress?

Her shawl was as sable as night,

And her gloves were as dark as her shawl; And her jewels, that flashed in the light,

Were black as a funeral pall;

Her robe had the hue of the rest,

(How nicely it fitted her shape!) And the grief that was heaving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape!

What tears of vicarious woe,

That else might have sullied her face,
Were kindly permitted to flow
In ripples of ebony lace!
While even her fan in its play

Had quite a lugubrious scope,
1 And seemed to be waving away
The ghost of the Angel of Hope!

Yet, rich as the robes of a queen

Was the sombre apparel she wore;

I'm certain I never had seen

Such a sumptuous sorrow before;
And I couldn't help thinking the beauty,
In mourning the loved and the lost,
Was doing its conjugal duty

Altogether regardless of cost!

One surely would say a devotion,
Performed at so vast an expense,
Betrayed an excess of emotion

That was really something immense;
And yet, as I viewed at my leisure
Those tokens of tender regard,

I thought it is scarce without measure-
The sorrow that goes by the yard!