COUNTRY COMMISSIONS.

DEAR cousin, I write this in haste,
To beg you will get for mamma
A pot of best jessamine paste,
And a pair of shoe-buckles for pa
At Lowther Arcade; then just pop
Into Aldersgate-street for the prints;
And while you are there you can stop
For a skein of white worsted at Flint's.

Papa wants a new razor strop,

And mamma wants a Chinchilli muff; Little Bobby's in want of a top,

And my aunt wants six-pen'orth of snuff. Just call in St. Martin's-le-Grand

For some goggles for Mary (who squints); Get a pound of bees'-wax in the Strand,

And the skein of white worsted at Flint's.

And while you are there you may stop
For some souchong in Monument-yard;
And while you are there you can pop
Into Mary le bone for some lard.
And while you are there you can call

For some silk of the latest new tints
At the mercer's, not far from Whitehall,
And remember the worsted at Flint's.

And while you are there, 'twere as well
If you call in Whitechapel, to see
For the needles; and then in Pall-mall,
For some lavender-water for me.
And while you are there you can go
To Wapping, to old Mr. Chint's;

But all this you may easily do

When you get the white worsted at Flint's.

I send, in this parcel, from Bet,
An old spelling-book to be bound,
A cornelian brooch to be set,

And some razors of pa's to be ground.
O dear, what a memory have I!

Notwithstanding all Deborah's hints,
I've forgotten to tell you to buy

A skein of white worsted from Flint's.

BOTHERED FROM HEAD TO TAIL.

ANONYMOUS.]

S Tune-"Oh dear, what can the matter be ?"

AT sixteen years old you could get little good of me;
Then I saw Norah-who soon understood of me
I was in love-but myself, for the blood of me,
Could not tell what I did ail.

'Twas dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Och! tare and 'ouns! what can the matter be !
Dear-dear! what can the matter be?

Bothered from head to tail.

I went to confess me to Father O'Flanagan, Told him my case-made an end-then began again ; "Father," says I, "make me soon my own man again,

If you can find out what I ail.”

Dear! dear! what can, &c.

Soon I fell sick, I did bellow and curse again,

Norah took pity to see me at nurse again;

Gave me a kiss-och! zounds! that threw me worse

again,

Well she knew what I did ail.

But, dear! dear! what can, &c.

'Tis now long ago since I left Tipperary,

How strange, growing older, our natures should vary! All symptoms are gone of my ancient quandary,

I cannot tell now what I ail.

"Dear! dear!" says she, &c.

THE BRAW FICKLE WOOER.

LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said there was naething I hated like men !
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me.

He spak o' the darts o' my bonny black een,
And vow'd for my love he was dyin';
I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
The Gude forgie me for lien! for lien!
The Gude forgie me for lien!

A weel-stock'd mailin, himsel for the laird,
And marriage, aff-hand, were his proffers ;
I never loot on that I ken'd it, or car'd,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what do ye think? in a fortnight or less,
The deil take his taste to gae near her!
He's up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jade, I could bear her, could
bear her,

Guess ye how, the jade, I could bear her.

But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarlock,

And wha but my fine fickle wooer was there,
Wha glowr'd as he'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
Wha glowr'd as he'd seen a warlock.

But ower my left shoulder I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassic.

I spier'd for my cousin, fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin,

And how my auld shoon fitted her shachl't feet,
Gude Lord! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
Gude Lord! how he fell a swearin.

He begged, for Gudesake! I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;
So just to preserve the poor body in life,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

THE QUEER LITTLE MAN.
A VERY little man, very how came you so,"
Went home on a dingy night;

It was past twelve o'clock, he'd a long way to go,
And he walk'd like a crab, left and right.
At the corner of a lane, quite a lonely retreat,
He saw something tall and as white as a sheet;
He shook and he shivered,

His teeth chattered, and lips quivered,

And with fear, as well as fuddling, he stagger'd to and fro,

This queer little man who'd a great way to go.

This queer little man then fell on his knees,
With fright you'll suppose half dead:
And as on it he looked it o'ertopped the trees,
And had two saucer eyes in its head.

When a very deathlike voice said in very drear tone,

"With me you must go, for your grave's nearly done,"

He shook and he shivered,

His teeth chattered, and lips quivered,

When he cried, "O, good hobgoblin, I pray you mercy show

A queer little man who's a great way to go."

The queer little man, he fell flat as a flail,
A great explosion heard he;

And jumped up in a crack, for a cracker at his tail
Set him capering just like a parched pea.

From around the goblin's head burst some long streams of fire,

And the cracker once spent left him sprawling in the mire.

Some wags ('twas a whacker),

Thus with turnip, squib, and cracker,

Cured through fear of all his fuddling, completely you must know,

This queer little man who'd a long way to go.

MY CONCERT'S A CHORUS OF DOGS
AND A GUN.

EVERY mortal some favourite pleasure pursues,
Some with cash run for play and some for the news;
At an actor's queer phiz others thunder applause,
And some triflers delight to hear musical noise;
But such idle amusements I carefully shun,
And my pleasures confine to my dogs and my gun.

Soon as Phoebus has finished his summer's career,
And his maturing aid blest the husbandman's care,
When Roger and Sue have enjoyed harvest-home,
And, their labour being o'er, are at leisure to roam,
From the noise of the town and its follies I run,
And range o'er the fields with my dog and my

gun.

When my pointers around me do cheerfully stand,
And none dares to stir but the dog I command,
When the covey he springs, and I bring down my
bird,

I've a pleasure no pastime besides can afford;
No pastime or pleasure that's under the sun
Is equal to mine with my dogs and my gun.