The Speaker

Down the long street, with a trample of feet,
For the echo of hoofs to a Cavalier's sweet.

See, black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof,
The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof;

Their muskets are long, and they aim at a throng, But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong! Butt-end to the door, one hammer more,

Our pikemen rush in, and the struggle is o'er.

Storm through the gate, batter the plate,
Cram the red crucible into the grate;
Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin and Will,

And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill.
That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side-
Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride.

Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight
Should never be seen by the sun or the light?
Like stars from a wood shine under that hood
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good.
Surely this waist was by Providence placed,
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced.

Down on your knees, you villains in frieze,

A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees:
Blow off this stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock-
The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock.
From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak,
I could kiss off the tears though she wept for a week.

Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-staff,
'Twill do for a flag, though the Crop Heads may laugh.
Who was it blew? Give an halloo,

And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue.

A volley of shot is a welcoming hot

It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot?

Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill,
Break down the plank that runs over the rill,
Bar the town gate; if the burghers debate,
Shoot some to death, for the villains must wait;
Rip up the lead from the roofing o'erhead,
And melt it for bullets, or we shall be sped.

Sorrows of Werther

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Werther had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

Transgression

BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

I meant to do my work to-day,

But a brown bird sang in the apple tree
And a butterfly flitted across the field
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand-
So what could I do but laugh and go?

-Harper's Magazine.