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Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty;
I'll pledge them in the good old
wine.

The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their
places,

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SORROWS OF WERTHER.

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,

And share the wine and Bouilla-And for all the wealth of Indies

baisse.

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Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,

And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

LITTLE BILLEE.

THERE were three sailors of Bristol
City

Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits,

And pickled pork they loaded she.

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And, looking grave, "You must," says he,

66

'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me. "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband cried;

"Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard!

Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know." What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke

more

"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no [bour; Shall Death disturb your mirthful And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have,

Before you're summoned to the grave; Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve, In hopes you'll have no more to say, But when I call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wise, how well,

How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,

The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffered then, he bought and sold,

Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no
shrew,

Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth

increase,

While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old time, whose haste no mortal
spares,

Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dodson cries.

"So soon, d'ye call it!" Death replies;

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"Nay, then," the spectre stern So come along, no more we'll part. He said, and touched him with his dart.

rejoined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings: If you are lame and deaf and blind, You've had your three sufficient warnings;

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JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE VAGABONDS.

WE are two travellers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog.-Come here, you scamp!

Jump for the gentleman,-mind your

eye!

Over the table, look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And eat and drank-and starvedtogether.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there's been frozen),

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from

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