Some think that way and others hold
      The opposite view;
      I never quite knew,
      For the matter o’ that,
  When everything’s been said—­
      May I offer this mat
  If you will stand on your head? 
  I suppose I look to be upside down
    From your present point of view. 
  It’s a giddy old world, from king to clown,
    And a topsy-turvy, too. 
  But, worthy and now uninverted old man,
  You’re built, at least, on a normal plan
      If ever a truth I spoke. 
          Smoke? 
      Your air and conversation
      Are a liberal education,
  And your clothes, including the metal hat
    And the brazen boots—­what’s that?

    “You never could stomach a Democrat
    Since General Jackson ran? 
  You’re another sort, but you predict
    That your party’ll get consummately licked?”
    Good God! what a queer old man!

BEREAVEMENT.

  A Countess (so they tell the tale)
  Who dwelt of old in Arno’s vale,
  Where ladies, even of high degree,
  Know more of love than of A.B.C,
  Came once with a prodigious bribe
  Unto the learned village scribe,
  That most discreet and honest man
  Who wrote for all the lover clan,
  Nor e’er a secret had betrayed—­
  Save when inadequately paid. 
  “Write me,” she sobbed—­“I pray thee do—­
  A book about the Prince di Giu—­
  A book of poetry in praise
  Of all his works and all his ways;
  The godlike grace of his address,
  His more than woman’s tenderness,
  His courage stern and lack of guile,
  The loves that wantoned in his smile. 
  So great he was, so rich and kind,
  I’ll not within a fortnight find
  His equal as a lover.  O,
  My God!  I shall be drowned in woe!”

  “What!  Prince di Giu has died!” exclaimed
  The honest man for letters famed,
  The while he pocketed her gold;
  “Of what’?—­if I may be so bold.” 
  Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: 
  “I stabbed him fifty times,” she said.

AN INSCRIPTION

  FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT.

  A famous conqueror, in battle brave,
  Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. 
  His reign laid quantities of human dust: 
  He fell upon the just and the unjust.

  A PICKBRAIN.

  What! imitate me, friend?  Suppose that you
  With agony and difficulty do
  What I do easily—­what then?  You’ve got
  A style I heartily wish I had not. 
  If I from lack of sense and you from choice
  Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice,
  No equal censure our deserts will suit—­
  We both are fools, but you’re an ape to boot!

CONVALESCENT.

    “By good men’s prayers see Grant restored!”
    Shouts Talmage, pious creature! 
  Yes, God, by supplication bored
    From every droning preacher,
  Exclaimed:  “So be it, tiresome crew—­
  But I’ve a crow to pick with you.”