Chapter I: MARVELL'D why a simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

Should utter groans so very wild,

And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I ask'd her why she cried;

The damsel answer'd, with a groan,

"I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad

Last night about eleven

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?''

She answer'd, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,

My little maid?" quoth I.

"Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,

But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,

"Of course you 've had eleven

The maiden answer'd, with a pout,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,

And said, "I'm bad at riddles,

But I know where little girls are sent

For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I,

"You'll never go to heaven."

But all In vain; each time I try,

That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven."

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I 'd better call my song,

Lines after Ache-inside."

SEE-SAW.

ICKNESS and Health have been playing

a game with me,

Tossing me up, like a ball, to and fro.

Pleasure and Pain did exactly the same

with me,

Treating me merely like something to

throw.

Joy took me up to the clouds for a holiday

In a balloon that she happens to keep;

Then, as a damp upon rather a jolly day,

Grief in a diving-bell bore me down deep.

Poverty courted me early--worse luck to her!--

(Wealth would have made me a much better wife;)

Fool that I am, I was faithful and stuck to her;

She 'll cling to me for the rest of my life.

As for our children, we 'd better have drown'd them all;

They, I believe, are the worst of our ills.

Is it a wonder I often confound them all,

Seeing that most of them chance to be _Bills?_

Hope, who was once an occasional visitor,

Never drops in on us now for a chat.

Memory calls, though,--relentless inquisitor--

(Not that I feel very grateful for that.)

Hope was a liar--it's no use denying it--

Memory's talk is undoubtedly true:

Still, I confess that I like, after trying it,

Hope's conversation the best of the two.

A WILD HUNT.

Can any one confidently say to himself that he has conversed with the

identical, individual, stupidest man now extant in London?"--T. Carlyle.