Now cakes and wine are handed round:
Folks sigh and drink, and drink and sigh,
For grief makes people dry:

But Dick is missing, nowhere to be found;
Above, below, about,

They searched the house throughout,

Each hall and secret entry,

Quite from the garret to the pantry,

In every cupboard, corner, nook, and shelf,
And all concluded he had hanged himself.

At last they found him-Reader, guess you where? 'Twill make you stare;

Perched on Rebecca's coffin, at his rest,

Smoking a pipe of Kirkman's best!

Anonymous.

OMENS.

To Cato once a frightened Roman flew-
The night before a rat had gnawed his shoe-

Terrible omen by the gods decreed:

"Cheer up, my friend," said Cato, "mind not that; Though if, instead, your shoe had gnawed the rat, It would have been a fearful sign indeed!"

THE COLD WATER MAN.

THERE lived an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well—
Who dwelt hard by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A

grave

and quiet man was he,

Who loved his hook and rod;

So even ran his line of life,

His neighbours thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said,
He never had a wish;

No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a "school of fish."

This single-minded fisherman
A double calling had,-
To tend his flocks in winter-time,
In summer fish for shad.

In short this honest fisherman,
All other toils forsook;
And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by "hook and crook.”

All day that fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,
And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog.

A cunning fisherman was he;

His angles all were right;
And when he scratched his aged poll,
You'd know he'd got a bite.

To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way,
Was just to "drop a line."

And many a "gudgeon" of the pond,
If made to speak to-day,

Would own with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking way."

One day, while fishing on the log,
He mourned his want of luck,-
When, suddenly, he felt a bite,
And jerking caught a duck!

Alas! that day the fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He couldn't "keep the log."

In vain he strove with all his might,
And tried to gain the shore;
Down, down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before.

The moral of this mournful tale
To all is plain and clear :—
A single "drop too much" of rum,
May make a watery bier.

And he who will not "sign the pledge,"
And keep his promise fast,

May be in spite of fate, a stark
Cold-water man, at last!

JOHN G. SAXE.

JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER.

A FELLOW near Kentucky's clime,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime,
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who would cross the Ohio,

This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I am this young lady's beau,

And she's John Thompson's daughter.

"We've fled before her father's spite,
With great precipitation,

And should he find us here to-night,
I'd lose my reputation.

"They've missed the girl and purse besides,
His horsemen hard have pressed me,
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they will arrest me ?"

Out spoke the boatman then, in time,
"You shall not fail, don't fear it;

I'll go not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit."

"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry,
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,

And with the drenching rain their clothes.
Grew wet where they were standing.

But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Just back a-piece came the police,
. Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"It's anything but funny,
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money."

And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;

John Thompson reached the landing place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all his cash,
And one was round her lover!

"Come back, come back!" he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;

"But leave the purse and you may go, My daughter, O my daughter!"

'Twas vain-they reached the other shore,

(Such dooms the fates assign us,)

The gold he'd piled went with his child,

And he was left there, minus.

Anonymous.