"
But--oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?--
"Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"
A NIGHT SCENE.
BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.
Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street.
Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet;
Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,
Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.
Gas-lamps, be quiet--stand up, if you please.
What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees:
Some on your heads--in the gutter some sunk--
Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.
Angels and ministers! look at the moon--
Shining up there like a paper balloon,
Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid--
Now I'm convinced--Oh! you tipsy old jade.
Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars--
Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,
Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd.
Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.
Down come the houses! each drunk as a king--
Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing;
Inside the bar it was safe and all right,
I shall go back there, and stop for the night.
KARL, THE MARTYR.
BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.
It was the closing of a summer's day,
And trellised branches from encircling trees
Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space.
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