Than in a given face
A very bad expression.

However in she went

Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten;
Who throwing up the sash,
With accents rash,

Thus hailed the most vociferous of men:
"Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant;
I cannot write a sentence no one can't!
So pack up your trumps, -
And stir your stumps."

Says he, "I shan't!"

Down went the sash,

As if devoted to "eternal smash."

(Another illustration

Of acted imprecation,)

While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!

The music-master could not stand it,
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand,
As savage as a bandit,

Made up directly to the tattered man,

And thus in broken sentences began:

Into two parts my head you split

My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,
When I do play

You have no business in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he, "I will.'

You ought to work

you have not some complaint

You are not cripple in your back or bones

Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"

Says he, "It ain't."

"I say you ought to labor!

You are in a young case,

You have not sixty years upon your face,

To come and beg your neighbor

And discompose his music with a noise
More worse than twenty boys -
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,

No coach, no horses, no postillion:
If you will sing, I say, it is not just
To sing so loud."

Says he, "I must!

I'm singing for the million!"

T. Hood.

CCCLVIII.

ODE TO MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin

(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!

There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;

Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble ! — that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, —
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

T. Hood.

I'

Full many a chill September,

And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;

The day before my kite-string snapped,

And I, my kite pursuing,

The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ; ·
For me two storms were brewing!