I have my opinion of men who cannot Wasting their lives, stunting their brains, But of course you don't sell to that class of men; Another glass, if you please ;-that's excellent gin. A piece of absurdity too foreign to think That one can't indulge in a good social drink. Over myself I know I've control, I can sip now and then from the rich flowing bowl, Drink or not drink, do either with ease What a pity all men can't do as they please! Have a drink, did you say? Thank you, here's luck! So fill up the glasses, and now drink with me, Stranger (hic) -I'm getting tired on my feet, So let's fill up and drink-(hic)—and then find a seat. (Hic)-I like your appearance—(hic)—can see in your face That confidence in you is never misplaced. With your permission I'll-(hic)-rest here a spell, For, mister-(hic)—the fact is I'm not—(hic)—feeling well. Guess you may give me-(hic)—a glass of that best; I think it's first-rate for a cold—(hic)—in the chest. Heavy eyes, heavy heart, thirsty and mad; The tongue's dry and parched; he calls for a drink Then looks for his friend, the one of last night, But he's gone, and a rough-looking man's in his place, He's told that his friend, so genial and witty, He appeals to the bar, charges robbery, theft, Then rudely cast out, in the cold, open street, THE DYING BOY. I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, And when the eighth came round, and called him out And sought his chamber to lie down and die! 'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends, And, on this wise, bestowed his last bequest: Mother! I'm dying now There's a deep suffocation in my breast, I feel the cold sweat stand: My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath Mother! your hand Here lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus, beneath my head, Never beside your knee Shall I kneel down again at night to pray, Oh, at the time of prayer, When you look round and see a vacant seat, Father! I'm going home, To the good home you speak of, that blest land I must be happy then; From pain and death you say I shall be free; Brother!-the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours Plant there some box or pine,— A verdant offering to my memory, And call it mine! Sister! my young rose tree That all the spring has been my pleasant care, And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away,-my short life done! Now, mother! sing the tune You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep! Morning spread over earth her rosy wings, He breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by tor. CATILINE EXPELLED.-CICERO. At length, Romans, we are rid of Catiline! We have driven him forth, drunk with fury, breathing mischief, threatening to revisit us with fire and sword. He is gone; he is fled; he has escaped; he has broken away. No longer, within the very walls of the city, shall he plot her ruin. We have forced him from secret plots into open rebellion. The bad citizen is now the avowed traiHis flight is the confession of his treason. Would that his attendants had not been so few! Be speedy, ye companions of his dissolute pleasures; be speedy, and you may overtake him before night, on the Aurelian road. Let him not languish, deprived of your society. Haste to join the congenial crew that compose his army,-his army, I say, for who doubts that the army under Manlius expect Catiline for their leader? And such an army ! Outcasts from honor, and fugitives from debt; gamblers and felons; miscreants, whose dreams are of rapine, murder and conflagration! Against these gallant troops of your adversary, prepare, O Romans, your garrisons and armies; and first to that maimed and battered gladiator oppose your consuls and generals; next, against that miserable, outcast horde, lead forth the strength and flower of all Italy! On the one side chastity contends; on the other, wantonness; here purity, there pollution; here integrity, there treachery; here piety, there profaneness; here constancy, there rage; here honesty, there baseness; here continence, there lust; in short, equity, temperance, fortitude, prudence, struggle with iniquity, luxury, cowardice, rashness, every virtue with every vice, and, lastly, the contest lies between well-grounded hope and absolute despair. In such a conflict, were even human aid to fail, would not the immortal gods empower such conspicuous virtue to triumph over such complicated vice? A COMICAL DUN.-JOHN MCKEEVER. Dear Ray: Gold is money, and money is gold; We crave, and the passions all unfold; As we borrow, beg, marry, or let it. But now for the cream of this missive of fun, And the latter just having sustained some reverses, |