Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies,
  Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies.

  Let Santa Claus descend again the flue;
  If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true.

  “A lie well stuck to is as good as truth,”
  And God’s too old to legislate for youth.

  Hail Christmas!  On my knees and fowl I fall: 
  For greater grace and better gravy call.
  Vive l’Humbug!—­that’s to say, God bless us all!

  COOPERATION.

  No more the swindler singly seeks his prey;
  To hunt in couples is the modern way—­
  A rascal, from the public to purloin,
  An honest man to hide away the coin.

  AN APOLOGUE.

  A traveler observed one day
  A loaded fruit-tree by the way. 
  And reining in his horse exclaimed: 
  “The man is greatly to be blamed
  Who, careless of good morals, leaves
  Temptation in the way of thieves. 
  Now lest some villain pass this way
  And by this fruit be led astray
  To bag it, I will kindly pack
  It snugly in my saddle-sack.” 
  He did so; then that Salt o’ the Earth
  Rode on, rejoicing in his worth.

  DIAGNOSIS.

  Cried Allen Forman:  “Doctor, pray
    Compose my spirits’ strife: 
  O what may be my chances, say,
    Of living all my life?

  “For lately I have dreamed of high
    And hempen dissolution! 
  O doctor, doctor, how can I
    Amend my constitution?”

  The learned leech replied:  “You’re young
    And beautiful and strong—­
  Permit me to inspect your tongue: 
    H’m, ah, ahem!—­’tis long.”

  FALLEN.

  O, hadst thou died when thou wert great,
    When at thy feet a nation knelt
    To sob the gratitude it felt
  And thank the Saviour of the State,
  Gods might have envied thee thy fate!

  Then was the laurel round thy brow,
    And friend and foe spoke praise of thee,
    While all our hearts sang victory. 
  Alas! thou art too base to bow
  To hide the shame that brands it now.

DIES IRAE.

A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix’s disappointing translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me to undertake a translation myself.  It may seem presumption in me to attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have attempted before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable.  The fault of previous translations, from Lord Macaulay’s to that of Gen. Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem—­though doubtless these admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators—­have