The Dead Moon.

HE moon is dead-defunct-played out,-
So says a very learned doctor;
She looketh well, beyond a doubt;
Perhaps she's in a trance, dear Proctor.

At any rate, she's most entrancing

For one of such decrepit age;

And on her radiant beauties glancing,
She charms the eyes of youth and sage.

And so the man upon her 's perished!—
He lived in doleful isolation;

Poor wretch! No wife his bosom cherished,
No children squalled his consolation.

Yet she's adored by all the gypsies,
Whose lovers sigh beneath her beams;
She aids the steps of staggering tipsies,
And silvers o'er romantic streams.

And once she caught Endymion sleeping,
And stooped to kiss him in a grove,

Upon him very slyly creeping;

He was her first and early love.

But that's a very ancient story,

And was a youthful indiscretion,

When she was in her primal glory,

Ere scandal-schools had held a session.

Dear, darling moon! I doat upon her
I watch her nightly in the sky;
But oh! upon my word of honor,
I'd rather she were dead than I.

What Mr. Robinson Thinks.

UVENER B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez strait ez he can,

An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him o' course,-thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;

For John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He's been on all sides thet give places or pelf,

But consistency still was a part of his plan,

He's been true to one party,-an' thet is himself;So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.

Gineral C., he goes in fer the war;

He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an, blood? So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

235

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of your country must ollers be took,

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country;

An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;

Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;

An' thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats. An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,

To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;
But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us.

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,

To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

That Grumbling Old Woman.

HERE was an old woman, and what do you think?-
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink!

But though victuals and drink were the chief of her diet,
Yet this grumbling old woman never was quiet.

MOTHER Goose.

She had a nice cottage, a hen-house and barn,
And a sheep whose fine wool furnished blankets and yarn;
A cow that supplied her with butter and cheese,

A large flock of geese, and a hive full of bees.

Yet she grumbled and grumbled from morning till night,
For this foolish old woman thought nothing went right;
E'en the days of the week were all wrong, for on Sunday
She always declared that she wished it was Monday.

If cloudless and fair was the long summer day,
And the sun smiled down on the new-mown hay,
"There's a drouth," she said, "as sure as you're born!

If it don't rain soon, it will ruin the corn!"

But when descended the gentle rain,
Blessing the bountiful fields of grain,
And bringing new life to flower and bud,
She said there was coming a second flood.

She never gave aught to the needy and poor;
The outcast and hungry she turned from her door.