Zekel and Bulda.
BY HOSEA BIGELOW.
'Zekel crept up quite unbeknown,
And peeked in through the winder,
And there sot Hulda, all alone,
With no one nigh to hinder.
Upon the chimbly crook-necks hung,
And in amongst them roasted,
The old Queen's arm that grand'ther Young
Brought back from Concord busted.
The walnut wood shot sparkles out,
Towards the putyest, (bless her,)
And little fires danced all about
The china on the dresser.
The very room, cause she was in,
Looked warm from floor to ceilin,
And she looked full as rosy agin,
As the apples she was pealin'.
She heard a foot, and knowed it too,
A raspin' on the scraper,
All ways to once her feelings flew,
Like sparks on burnt up paper.
He kinder loitered on the mat,
Some doubtful of the signal,
His heart kept going pity-pat,
But her's went pity-Zekel.
The Good Old Days of Hore.
Original. Published by G. P. Reed, Boston.
How my heart is in me burning,
And my very soul is yearning,
As my thoughts go backward, turning
To the good old days of yore
When my father, and my mother,
And each sister dear, and brother,
Sat and chatted with each other
Round that good old cottage door.
Voice and spirit loved to cheer it.
And the very birds to hear it,
Flew around the door, and near it—
Near that good old cottage-door;
And each sister dear, and brother
Nestled closed to each other,
As our father and our mother
Sang their good old songs of yore.
Then were words of kindness spoken,
And each heart renewed the token,
Pledging vows not to be broken,
Broken never, never more.
And though now asunder driven,
With the ties of childhood riven,
Still we cherish pledges given
Round that good old cottage door.
Then no treason drowned our reason;
But each annual summer season
Sang we all our happy glees on,
And around our cottage door.
Blessed thoughts would then come oe'r us,
And each heart and voice in chorus,
Sang of those who'd gone before us
In the good old days of yore.
Though our days on earth are fleeting,
And all temporal joys retreating,
Yet we hope for another meeting-
Better far than days of yore-
When through heavenly courts ascending,
And with angel voices blending,
We shall sing on, without ending,
At our Heavenly Father's door,-
Sing the New Song forever more.
Congressional Song of Eight Dollars a Day.
At Washington full once a year do politicians throng,
Contriving there by various arts to make their sessions long;
And many a reason do they give why they're obliged to stay,
But the clearest reason yet adduced is eight dollars a day.
Just go with me to the capitol, if you really would behold
All that imagination craves, and more than e'er was told;
D'ye see the city avenue swarms with members grave and gay,
And what d'ye s'pose they're thinking of? 'tis eight dollars a day.
All Washington now is wide awake, and all the big hotels
Are filled with representatives, and oh! how liquor sells;
It cannot well be otherwise, for think you men will play
The national tune without their grog of eight dollars a day.
A startling scene will now be played before the gazing world,
For from the nation's capitol her banner is unfurled;
The congressmen are trudging on, each in his chosen way,
And all keep time to the glorious tune of eight dollars a day.
Now to the senate chamber first, then to the house we'll go,
And learn a lesson while we may of patriotic show—
The roll is called and quorum formed and the chaplains rise to pray,
And then the national work begins at eight dollars a day.
Then every member takes his seat in the cushioned chair of state,
Thinking that in his dignity's embodied the nation's fate:
A flaming speech is made by one, when the call is yea or nay—
But all are agreed when the question comes of eight dollars a day.
Then the cry of war runs through the land for volunteers to go
And fight in the war for slavery on the plains of Mexico;
Seven dollars a month, and to be shot at that, is the common soldier's
While those who send the poor fellows there get their eight dollars a day.
But the war is pass'd and peace declared-the nations now behold
The brain of Uncle Sam upset by the California gold;
Our young men by ten thousands seem throwing their lives away,
For they've got the congress fever on of eight dollars a day.
But let us hope that a better day is coming fast along,
When love of right shall conquer might and every giant wrong,
When favors and monopolies shall all have passed away,
And every man and woman too get eight dollars a day.
The War Work.
Once on a time, some years ago,
Two Yankees from this State,
Were travelling on foot, of course,
A style now out of date;-
And being far away down South,
It wasn't strange or funny,
That they, like other folks, sometimes
Should be in want of money.
So coming to a thriving place,
They hired a lofty hall,
And on the corners of the streets
Put handbills, great and small,—
Telling the people far and near,
In printed black and white,
They'd give a show of wax work
In the great town hall that night.
Of course the people thought to see
A mighty show of figures;-
Of Napoleon, Byron, George the Third,
And lots of foreign gentlemen;
Of Mary, Queen of Scots, you know,
And monks in black and white,
And heroes, peasants, potentates,
In wax work brought to light.
One of our Yankees had, they say,
No palate to his mouth,
And this perhaps the reason was
Why he was going South;
But be that as it may, you see,
He couldn't speak quite plain,
But talked-youn* yin ees yote-just so,
And sometimes talked in vain.
The other was a handsome man,
Quite pleasant and quite fine,
And had a form of finest mould,
And straight as any line.
Indeed he was a handsome man,
As you will often see,-
Much more so, sir, than you or you,
Like Governor Briggs or me.
This handsome man stood at the door,
To let the people in,
And the way he took the quarters
And the shillings was a sin;
And when the hour of show had come,
He a curtain pulled aside,
And our friend without a palate
Stood in all his pomp and pride.
And in his brawny hand he held.
A pound or two or more,
Of good shoemakers' wax, which he
Had made sometime before;
He then began to work it!
And his audience thus addressed ;-
And while they looked and listened,
Let their great surprise be guessed.
Said he, "my friends, how some folks cheat I never could conceive,
But this is the real wax work,
For I stoop not to deceive;
This is the real wax work,
For your quarters and your twelves;
Ladies and gentlemen, please walk up,
And examine for yourselves."
But when the people saw the joke,
With anger they turned pale,-
Hammer and tongs, they came at him
To ride him on a rail;
But he had an open window
And a ladder to the ground,
And just as he went out of sight,
He turned himself around-
And holding up the wax to view,
Said with a saucy grin,—
"My friends there's no deception,
For I scorn to take you in;
This is the REAL WAX-WORK,
For your quarters and your twelves;
Ladies and gentlemen, please walk up,
And examine for yourselves."
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