Acknowledged much was to be said for it;
Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face,
And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe,
Laughed heartily, and let him go.
Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued,
Away he trotted in a merry mood;
When, turning round the corner of a street,
Who but his countryman he chanced to meet!
To him, with many a shrug and many a grin,
He told him how he'd taken Jean Bull in!
Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks the shop of shops.
Entering, he seats himself, just at his ease,
"What will you take, Sir ?"—" Vat you please."
The waiter turned as pale as Paris plaster,
And, upstairs running, thus addressed his master:
"These vile mounseers come over sure in pairs;
"Sir, there's another 'vat you please!' downstairs."
This made the landlord rather crusty,
Too much of one thing-the proverb's somewhat musty.
Once to be done, his anger didn't touch,
But when a second time they tried the treason,
It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason,
You would be crusty were you done so much.
There is a kind of instrument
Which greatly helps a serious argument,
And which, when properly applied, occasions
Some most unpleasant tickling sensations!
"Twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip,
"Twould strike you, presently—a stout horsewhip.
This instrument our Maître d'Hôte
Most carefully concealed beneath his coat;
And seeking instantly the Frenchman's station,
Addressed him with the usual salutation.
Our Frenchman bowing to his threadbare knees,
Determined while the iron's hot to strike it,
Pat with his lesson answers-" Vat you please!"
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,
Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip;
"Sare, sare! ah, misericorde, parbleu !
"Oh dear, monsieur, vat make you use me so? "Vat call you dis?" "Oh, don't know? you "That's what I please," says Bonny, "how d' ye like it? "Your friend, although I paid dear for his funning, "Deserved the goose he gained, sir, for his cunning; "But you, monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting, "Are goose enough and only wanted basting."
[Mr. Charles Sprague is a native of Boston, U.S., where he was born October 26, 1791. He was educated in the schools of his native town, but early placed in a mercantile house, and at the age of twenty-one commenced business as a merchant on his own account. He was ultimately appointed cashier to one of the principal banks in Massachusetts, which office we believe he still holds.
Mr. Sprague has contributed much to the American Magazines. He is represented to be of a retiring disposition, mixing but little in society, and passing his leisure hours among books and a few old and tried friends. His poems show the strength of his domestic and social affections, while they breathe the true poetic fervour.]
WE are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is fill'd-we're all at home;
To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle peace assert her power,
And kind affection rule the hour;
We're all-all here.
Some are away—the dead ones dear,
Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:
Some like a night-flash pass'd away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel ocean has his share-
We're not all here.
E'en they-the dead-though dead, so dear;
Fond memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They're round us as they were of old—
We are all here.
We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
Oh! then, may we that wisdom know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all here!
"A Cookery Book complete!"
The idea is too delicious ;-
What! with every dish out of which
The others are wont to dish us?
In our hospitality now
We may grow, then, free and bolder, And act with commendable grace
In giving a friend the cold shoulder.
Each man may cook his own goose,
And to Sybarite tastes may pander,
With the sauce that is good for the goose,
And equally so for the gander.
It will add to our old cuisine
Rare tid-bits, there's no doubt of; We shall know how to get and to dress The "joint" the times are out of.
With luxuries even the poor
May be henceforward surrounded, And be eating their humble pie
By the proper receipt compounded.
We shall get, too, the ancient art,
Long lost in darkness utter,
By which, with soft words alone,
A man may his parsnips butter.
Vide advertisements in daily papers.
Some are away-the dead ones dear,
Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:
Some like a night-flash pass'd away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel ocean has his share-
We're not all here.
E'en they-the dead-though dead, so dear;
Fond memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They're round us as they were of old—
We are all here.
We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
Oh! then, may we that wisdom know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all all here!
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