Have a drink, did you say? Thank you, here's luck,-
That's the genuine article-no common truck.
When I start, prepare me a flask of that old,
For I'm certain it's helping my terrible cold.

So fill up the glasses, and now drink with me,
I've plenty of money, if you don't believe it, see;
Look at these fifties, these twenties, this ten.
Here's to you, drink hearty, and—(hic)—fill 'em again.

Stranger-(hic)-I'm getting tired on my feet,
So let's fill up and drink-(hic)—, 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 gin is all gone, the head's feeling bad;
The tongue's dry and parched; he calls for a drink
To waken his wits and to help him to think.

Then looks for his friend, the one of last night,
So winning and pleasant, so kind and polite;

But he's gone, and a rough-looking man's in his place,
With a dark, evil eye, and a coarse-bearded face.

He's told that his "friend," so genial and witty,
Receiving a dispatchi, has just left the city.
The wretched young man then feels for his purse,
Only to ejaculate "Gone!" with a curse.

IIe appeals to the bar, charges robbery, theft,
Calls for the man he's informed has just left,
Then gently reminded they do not permit
Their establishment cursed in a mad drunken fit;

That he never lost money, had none to lose,—
Himself a thief, vagabond, thus to abuse
A respectable house, where gentlemen come
To socially quaff their ale, gin, and rum.

Then rudely cast, in the cold, open street,
Moneyless, hungry, nothing to eat-
No food for thought but reflection of shame,
And a head half-crazed with a sobering pain.

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
To gambol in the sun, he turned away,

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 is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;
And on my brow

I feel the cold sweat stand:

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. O, tell me ! is this death?
Mother! your hand-

Here-lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!—say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?

Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay,
You taught to me!

O, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat, You will not wait then for my coming feetYou'll miss me there!

Father! I'm going home!

To the good home you speak of, that blest land,
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

I must be happy then;

From pain and death you say I shall be free-
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!

Brother!-the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

Plant there some box or pine

Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!

Sister! my young rose tree

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee.

And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away-my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?

Now mother! sing the tune

You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it called my name?-Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savory odors of the early spring-
He breathed it not !-The laugh of passers by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-he was dead!

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 traitor. His 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

Bociety. 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 treach ery; 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 tc triumph over such complicated vice?

A COMICAL DUN.-JOHN MCKEEVER.

Dear Ray:

GOLD is money, and money is gold;
Money is power too, we're told,-
A power we find quite hard to hold,
But harder it is to get it.-
We crave, and the passions all unfold;
Crime is purchased, and virtue is sold,--
Our very natures grow warm or cold,-

As we borrow, beg, marry, or let it.

Talking of money, puts me in mind
How many there are of the human kind
Sore plagued with the sin of being "behind ;"-
Of having the "shorts," and being "in need"-
And out at the elbows, and running to seed,
Empty in pockets, and out at the toes,
And "nary a red" to soothe their woes.

Now, we know that a simple ten dollar note,
In the channels of trade kept active afloat
And changing hands nimbly during the day,
Some hundreds of dollars of debts will pay.
And could we this qualification enchain
To our own individual use, it is plain
That what it would do for the public, you see
'Twould also accomplish for you or for me.—
But now for the cream of this missive of fun,
Which I own in advance, is a comical dun:-
We hear from the distant Isle of Japan,
That Mandarin Ming owes Bumbo Jam;
And the latter just having sustained some reverses,
And vented the usual Japanese curses,

In short, having spent to his very last "lac,"
Is cleaned out, collapsed, and flat on his back:
Now, Bumbo Jam, ruined, 'tis certainly plain

Must live, and must eat, and must drink just the same,
So feeling in need of fricasseed cat,

A dish of stewed snails, or a nice devilled rat,
Makes tracks for the office of Mandarin Ming,
And thus he salutes him, in Japanese "ling:"
"Hi yah! Chee-chow-chow, cum oolong boo!
Si-see. Suchongkum, hong forkee, o-doo!"
In English,-"Look here you grey old sinner,
Just fork out enough to buy me a dinner,
And pay up the balance as soon as you can,
For Bumbo's a most unfortunate man."

Now Mandarin Ming sends over the sea,
To famed New York, to his consignee,
This letter:-"Remit by next packet to me,
The proceeds of all my Hyson Tea,
Cinnamon, nutmegs, silks, and Bohea."
The result of this is, that soon, one and all,
This consignee's debtors are subject to call;
And they in their turn, must actively dun
The debtors who owe them, every one.
So, Tom he duns Dick, and Dick duns Daniel,
And Dan proceeds to hurry up Samuel;
Sam shins over and wakes up Lew,

Who essays a call on Levy the Jew,

But failing to get either promise or pay,

Drops in upon Joe, who lives over the way

He, prompt and obliging, runs round the corner,

And presents his account, to his friend Harry Horner; Harry asks time to see Alick Weaver,

Alick then stirs up one John McKeever,

John forks over; but the very next day

(And meaning his compliments only to pay,)

We find him a-saying "Good-morning" to Ray.