So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'nt be lazy here,--

And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,-

He's lost them both, -don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the further eye,
That isn't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;

It's pretty sport, -suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me but I mean to have

A treadmill of my own!

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take

One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;

But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,—
Some filthy creature begs

You'll hear about the cannon-ball

That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,-
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come;

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor "home, sweet home," should seem to be A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance" all at once

Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,

And silence, like a poultice, comes

To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,—it is,—it is,

A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear

That stunned you with his paw,

And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw;

But, if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;

Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And, if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or if you cannot make a speech
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

TO AN INSECT.1

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-
Old gentlefolks are they,-
Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill.

I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,-
A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

O tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,

Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

1 Perhaps most of our readers are aware that there is an insect in America named the "Katydid," on account of its emitting a sound resembling that combination of syllables. I have been told that sometimes the insect varies its utterances into "Katydidn't."-W. M. R.

And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,-
Pray tell me, swectest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And, when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.

THE SPECTRE PIG.

A BALLAD.

IT was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle Pig

Lay stretched upon the ground,

And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.

They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along;
They put a stick between his lips,

And through his heels a thong;

And round and round an oaken beam

A hempen cord they flung,

And, like a mighty pendulum,

All solemnly he swung!

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,

And think what thou hast done,

And read thy catechism well,

Thou bloody-minded one;

For, if his sprite should walk by night,

It better were for thee

That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,-
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes;

All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,

And, in his soft simplicity,

Out spoke the tender child:

"O father, father, list to me;
The Pig is deadly sick,

And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."

It was the bloody butcher then
That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry ;-

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,

That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,-
Fast fell the tear-drops big;-

"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.