T'other day when I fell o'er the form,
Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at?
Well for you that my temper's not warm-
There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!”

Why, you rascal! you insolent brat!
All my talking you don't shed a tear at,
There-take that, Sir! and that! that! and
that!

There!" Palmam qui meruit ferat!"

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! "-MERCUTIO.

I.

"TWAS twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim,

Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.

II.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup,'
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A GHOST came rising up!

III.

"O, father dear, O, mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim,—

You know when some one went to sea,—
Don't cry-but I am him!

IV.

"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!

V.

"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!

VI.

"The Ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops;

When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops.

VII.

"Just give a look in Norey's chart,
The very place it tells;

I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells.

VIII.

"Well there we are till hands aloft,'
We have at last a call;
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot too, and all.

IX.

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest,
In Davy Jones's sod,

Till I've appeared to you and said,-
Don't sup on that 'ere Cod!

X.

"You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea;

Last Sunday week, at 2 P. M.
That Cod was picking me!

XI.

"Those oysters too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,

They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one.

XII.

"O, do not eat those oysters then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave,
They sucked my blood like imps!

XIII.

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat,

They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!”

XIV.

The Spirit fled-they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack!

At last up started brother Jim,
"Let's try if Jack was Jack!"

XV.

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
And little Kitten too,

And down they put the Cod and sauce,
To see what brutes would do.

XVI.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,

But munched the Cod,-and little Kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps!

XVII.

The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
O, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!

A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'TWAS August-Hastings every day was filling— Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste!" With crowds of idlers willing or unwilling

To be bedipped-be noticed-or be braced,
And all things rose a penny in a shilling.
Meanwhile, from window and from door, in haste
"Accommodation bills" kept coming down,
Gladding "the world of letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coach-fulls of new cits,
Flying from London smoke and dust annoying,
Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits,

And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying,
Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits,
And quakers of both sexes, much enjoying
A morning's reading by the ocean's rim,
That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature,
So small, he almost might a twin have been
With Miss Crachami-dwarfish quite in stature,
Yet well proportioned-neither fat nor lean,
His face of marvellously pleasant feature,
So short and sweet a man was never seen-

All thought him charming at the first beginningAlas, ere long they found him far too winning!

He seemed in love with chance-and chance repaid

His ardent passion with her fondest smile,
The sunshine of good luck, without a shade,

He staked and won-and won and staked-the bile
It stirred of many a man and many a maid,
To see at every venture how that vile

Small gambler snatched-and how he won them

too

A living Pam, omnipotent at loo!

Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,

'Twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass, And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks Of needles, silks, and cottons-but alas!

She lost it wide awake.-We thought Miss Cox
Was lucky-but she saw three caddies

pass To that small imp;-no living luck could loo him! Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him!

And so he climbed-and rode, and won-and walked,

The wondrous topic of the curious swarm
That haunted the Parade. Many were balked
Of notoriety by that small form

Pacing it up and down :-some even talked
Of ducking him-when lo! a dismal storm
Stepped in-one Friday, at the close of day-
And every head was turned another way—

Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise
Bulky and slow upon the southern brink
Of the horizon-fanned by sultry sighs-
So black and threatening, I cannot think
Of any simile, except the skies

Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink—