Right jollie is ye tailyor-man
    As annie man may be;
  And all ye daye, upon ye benche
    He worketh merrilie.

  And oft, ye while in pleasante wise
    He coileth up his lymbes,
  He singeth songs ye like whereof
    Are not in Watts his hymns.

  And yet he toileth all ye while
    His merrie catches rolle;
  As true unto ye needle as
    Ye needle to ye pole.

  What cares ye valiant tailyor-man
    For all ye cowarde fears? 
  Against ye scissors of ye Fates,
    He points his mightie shears.

  He heedeth not ye anciente jests
    That witless sinners use;
  What feareth ye bolde tailyor-man
    Ye hissinge of a goose?

  He pulleth at ye busie threade,
    To feede his lovinge wife
  And eke his childe; for unto them
    It is the threade of life.

  He cutteth well ye rich man’s coate,
    And with unseemlie pride,
  He sees ye little waistcoate In
    Ye cabbage bye his side,

  Meanwhile ye tailyor-man his wife,
    To labor nothing loth,
  Sits bye with readie hande to baste
    Ye urchin, and ye cloth.

  Full happie is ye tailyor-man
    Yet is he often tried,
  Lest he, from fullness of ye dimes,
    Wax wanton in his pride.

  Full happie is ye tailyor-man,
    And yet he hath a foe,
  A cunning enemie that none
    So well as tailyors knowe.

  It is ye slipperie customer
    Who goes his wicked wayes,
  And wears ye tailyor-man his coate,
    But never, never payes!

* * * * *

From “The Money King.”

=_394._= ANCIENT AND MODERN GHOSTS CONTRASTED.

      In olden times,—­if classic poets say
  The simple truth, as poets do to-day,—­
  When Charon’s boat conveyed a spirit o’er
  The Lethean water to the Hadean shore,
  The fare was just a penny,—­not too great,
  The moderate, regular, Stygian statute rate.
  Now, for a shilling, he will cross the stream,
  (His paddles whirling to the force of steam!)
  And bring, obedient to some wizard power,
  Back to the Earth more spirits in an hour,
  Than Brooklyn’s famous ferry could convey,
  Or thine, Hoboken, in the longest day! 
  Time was when men bereaved of vital breath,
  Were calm and silent in the realms of Death;
  When mortals dead and decently inurned
  Were heard no more; no traveler returned,
  Who once had crossed the dark Plutonian strand,
  To whisper secrets of the spirit-land,—­
  Save when perchance some sad, unquiet soul—­
  Among the tombs might wander on parole,—­
  A well-bred ghost, at night’s bewitching noon,
  Returned to catch some glimpses of the moon,
  Wrapt in a mantle of unearthly white,
  (The only rapping of an ancient sprite!)
  Stalked round in silence till the break