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THE “LOUDEST” OF SUNDAYS “SWELLS.”  The Swell of the Church organ.

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[Illustration:  THE PRIZE CALF “S.  L. WOODFORD,” FATTENED UP BY MESSRS.  GREELY AND CURTIS FOR THE SPECIAL PURPOSE OF BEING CUT UP ON TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 8TH.]

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“DOST KNOW ME?”

Composed by our Special Dangerous Lunatic in one of his Lucid Intervals.

  Dost know me? dost know me? was all the maiden said,
  As she streamed her golden tresses through the half-unkneaden bread,
  While the sunset light came sheening athwart the oaken floor,
  And the Headsman chanted his roundelay at the soul-beshriven door.

Dost know me? dost know me? rang o’er the heather wild,
While the dew-drop lifted its golden head, and the hoary bull-frog
smiled;
Yet every eye was dim with tears, as the shadow of Time replied,
And the echo from over the moorland drear,
In cloistered glory and voice of cheer,
Silently welcomed the Bride.

“Dost know me? dost know me?” and a soul from out the gloom
Welcomed the rippling brooklet flowing past the tomb,
Gilding the steeples, near and far, with a dusk and dimsome spleen,
Tipping with crest of golden fire
Each mighty CAESAR’S funeral pyre
In its wealth of golden sheen.

“Dost know me? dost know me?”—­eftsoones the answer came
From the lips of the lady with blonden hair like a wreath of golden
flame,
As she lifted the light of her beauteous eyes to the questioning
lips of the knight,
And muttered those words of import dire,
And flashed her eyes with a baleful fire—­
Alas! did he hear aright?

“I know thee!  I know thee! for thou art the Khouli Khan,
And I am the Empress of Allahabad, or any other man,
Then turtle soup may lift its crest o’er the stars in the twilight dim,
Ere I, an Empress of regions fair,
With a halo of succulent blonden hair,
Elope with a Khouli grim.”

Ah me! ’twas sad, and a gruesome night, when the maiden fair said, “No!”
And gave response to the Knight’s demand in accents sweetly low.

THE END.

Gems more clear than this, no doubt, have oftentimes been seen,
Yet methinks, at least, ’tis a poem clear
As poems which every week appear
In the Waverley Magazine.

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“WELL SAID, OLD MOLE!”

In a newspaper description of Mr. GREELEY, published some years since, it was stated that he was born with a mole upon his left arm.  This may or may not be the case; but, judging from the persistence with which the great agriculturist advocates sub-soil ploughing, there can be no doubt whatever that he has mole on the brain.

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BLOOD AND THUNDER!

PUNCHINELLO learns, without the least surprise, that Mr. YOUNGBLOOD has retired in disgust from the management of the New York Free Press.  It is further announced that the estimable publication referred to will henceforth be under the charge of Mr. OLDBLOOD, a blood relative of all the BADBLOODS belonging to the JOHN REAL Democracy.