Last night I dreamt that worn away
    With sickness, I was dead,
  And that my carcass, cheek by jowl,
    Was by a poor man’s laid.

  My stomach rose, methought, to see
    The wretch so near me lie,
  And straight his sauciness I chid,
    Like corpse of quality.

  Scoundrel, cried I, move farther off,
    And give your betters room,
  Avaunt, you scrub, and rot elsewhere,
    Foh! how you stink and fume.

  Scrub! quoth the saucy dog, that’s well,
    Pray who’s more scrub than you? 
  Bethink you, Mr., where you are,
    And do not rant it so.

  Hither on equal terms all come,
    Here’s neither rich nor poor,
  My muck’s my own, and be assur’d,
    That your’s can be no more.

* * * * *

SONG.

  Oh, yes!  I always dream of her,
    But never breathe her name;
  Her spirit always dwells with me,
    By night, by day the same! 
  The cheerful smile no more is mine;
    I sorrow and regret;
  I strive in vain to banish love,
    But still I can’t forget.

  My friends may try to rally me,
    And chase my grief away;
  I smile in sadness while they laugh,
    But heed not what they say. 
  They must not know how deep I love,
    Nor win my secret yet;
  And when I smile amid the scene,
    ’Tis not that I forget.

  My lips can never break the spell;
    Her name is buried here! 
  And yet perchance she may bedew
    My coffin with a tear! 
  But if in climes away from her
    The sun of life should set,
  Her name will quiver on my lip,
    When I the world forget.

Z.

* * * * *

EPITAPH IN AWLISCOMBE CHURCHYARD, DEVONSHIRE.

Here lie the remains of James Pady, brickmaker, late of this parish, in hopes that his clay will be remoulded in a workmanlike manner, far superior to his former perishable materials.

  Keep death and judgment always in your eye,
  Or else the devil off with you will fly,
  And in his kiln with brimstone ever fry. 
  If you neglect the narrow road to seek,
  Christ will reject you like a half-burnt brick.

Awliscombe.

J.S.

* * * * *

In the sea-fight off Minorca, in 1756, a gunner had his right hand shot off, just as he was going to fire off a gun.  The brave fellow took up the match, saying, quite unconcernedly, “So then you thought that I had but one arm.”

* * * * *

FLOWERS.

  With each expanding flower we find
  Some pleasing sentiment combin’d;
  Love in the myrtle bloom is seen,
    Remembrance to the violet clings,
  Peace brightens in the olive green,
    Hope from the half-closed iris springs,
  Victory from the laurel grows,
  And woman blushes in the rose.