A DEMAND.

  You promised to paint me a picture,
          Dear Mat,
    And I was to pay you in rhyme. 
  Although I am loth to inflict your
    Most easy of consciences, I’m
  Of opinion that fibbing is awful,
  And breaking a contract unlawful,
    Indictable, too, as a crime,
          A slight and all that.

  If, Lady Unbountiful, any
          Of that
    By mortals called pity has part
  In your obdurate soul—­if a penny
    You care for the health of my heart,
  By performing your undertaking
  You’ll succor that organ from breaking—­
    And spare it for some new smart,
          As puss does a rat.

  Do you think it is very becoming,
          Dear Mat,
    To deny me my rights evermore
  And—­bless you! if I begin summing
    Your sins they will make a long score! 
  You never were generous, madam,
  If you had been Eve and I Adam
    You’d have given me naught but the core,
          And little of that.

  Had I been content with a Titian,
          A cat
    By Landseer, a meadow by Claude,
  No doubt I’d have had your permission
    To take it—­by purchase abroad. 
  But why should I sail o’er the ocean
  For Landseers and Claudes?  I’ve a notion
    All’s bad that the critics belaud. 
          I wanted a Mat.

  Presumption’s a sin, and I suffer
          For that: 
    But still you did say that sometime,
  If I’d pay you enough (here’s enougher—­
    That’s more than enough) of rhyme
  You’d paint me a picture.  I pay you
  Hereby in advance; and I pray you
    Condone, while you can, your crime,
          And send me a Mat.

  But if you don’t do it I warn you,
          Dear Mat,
    I’ll raise such a clamor and cry
  On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you
    As mocker of poets and fly
  With bitter complaints to Apollo: 
    “Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow,
    Her beauty”—­they’ll hardly deny,
          On second thought, that!

THE WEATHER WIGHT.

  The way was long, the hill was steep,
  My footing scarcely I could keep.

  The night enshrouded me in gloom,
  I heard the ocean’s distant boom—­

  The trampling of the surges vast
  Was borne upon the rising blast.

  “God help the mariner,” I cried,
  “Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!”

  Then from the impenetrable dark
  A solemn voice made this remark: 

  “For this locality—­warm, bright;
  Barometer unchanged; breeze light.”

  “Unseen consoler-man,” I cried,
  “Whoe’er you are, where’er abide,

  “Thanks—­but my care is somewhat less
  For Jack’s, than for my own, distress.

  “Could I but find a friendly roof,
  Small odds what weather were aloof.