bad end, if a dance upon Sunday led so inevitably to a dance upon nothing!

The "Saints" having set up this absolute dependence of crime on Sabbath-breaking, their relative proportions become a fair statistical question; and, as such, the inquiry is seriously recommended to the rigid Legislator, who acknowledges, indeed, that the Sabbath was "made for man," but, by a singular interpretation, conceives that the man for whom it was made is himself!

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying-
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out-
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime-
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,-
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl;
What I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs ?

Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"-
Well he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
All up-all up!

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;-
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,

Must be a spoon.

A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great,

Of being cheated as to cheat."

THE history of human-kind to trace

HUDIBRAS.

Since Eve-the first of dupes-our doom un

riddled,

A certain portion of the human race

Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!

A

rage that time seems only to redouble— The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy

schemes,

For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.
No matter what,-to pasture cows on stubble,
To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,
Or light with gas the whole celestial cope-

Only propose to blow a bubble,

And Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap! it reminds me of a little tale,

Tho' not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory, When rustic games and merriment prevail— But here's my story:

Once on a time-no matter when-
A knot of very charitable men
Set up a Philanthropical Society,
Professing on a certain plan,
To benefit the race of man,

And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior—as in vermin,
The sable is to ermine,

As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow,
As blacking, or as ink to "milk below,"
Or yet, a better simile to show,
As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city,
They had a sort of managing Committee,

A board of grave, responsible Directors—
A Secretary, good at pen and ink-

A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink,
And quite an army of Collectors!

Not merely male, but female duns,

Young, old, and middle-aged-of all degreesWith many of those persevering ones, Who mite by mite would beg a cheese!

And what might be their aim?

To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters

To save their bodies from the burning shame
Of branding with hot letters-

Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes,
Their necks from iron yokes?