So with certain designers, one needs not to name,
All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,
From our birth to our final adjourning—
Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!
What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as
black

As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch,

While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich,

More transparent than ebony shutters,

Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say, Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away, As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat, Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti, or sweet

For your hand a performance scarce proper— So some careful professional person secureFor the Laundress will not be a safe amateurTo assist you in cleaning the copper.

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job,
To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob—
Though as sure of an instant forgetting
When as after the dark clearing off of a storm-
The fair landscape shines out in a lustre as warm
As the glow of the sun in its setting!

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint,
That with certain assistance from paper and print,
Which the proper Mechanic will settle,
- without any

You may charm all

sad tale

Friends your

Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-
With a fine India Proof of your Metal.

DEATH'S RAMBLE.

ONE day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair
His body was lean and lank,

His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd
Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd it made him laugh, (For the man was a coffin-maker,)

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."

And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,

In fear they could not smother;

And he shot one through at once-for he knew They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,

And he gave a snore infernal;

Said Death," He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach
So slow, that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;

But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further:
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;

But he let them be-for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum.”

He met a dustman ringing a bell,

And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he mark'd him out for slaughter;

For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!