And the question is next, long as fortune may frown on him, How the two Bengalese are to keep the Tub down on him. 'Bout this there's no blunder, The Tiger is under The Tub! My verse need not run To the length of a sonnet, While the beautiful barrel Keeps acting as bonnet To the Tiger inside, Who no more in his pride Can roam over jungle and plain, But sheltered alike from the sun and the rain, Around its interior his sides deigns to rub And longs for his freedom again. The two Bengalese, Not at all at their ease, Hear him roar, And deplore Their prospects as sore, Forgetting both picnic and flask; Each, wondering, dumb, What of both will become, But increasing their weight By action of muscle and sinew, In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, May still keep the Tiger within you. On the top of the Tub, In the warmest of shirts, The thin man stands, While the fat by his skirts Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing; And the thin peers over the top of the cask, "Is there any hope for us?" As much as to ask, With a countenance cunning and knowing; And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail, In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole, He twigs the long end of the old Tiger's tail As it twists itself out of the bung-hole. Then, sharp on the watch, He gives it a catch, And shouts to the Tiger, "You 've now got your match; You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar, And both in a pretty pickle. The Tiger begins by giving a bound; The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found It 's no use quaking and turning pale, They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail, There they must pull, if they pull for weeks, Straining their stomachs and bursting their cheeks, While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, Trying to break away from 'em; They must keep the Tub turned over his back, And never let his long tail get slack, For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight, From night till morning, from morn till night,- Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub, To his own surprise, With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, And his tail thrust through the hole of a barrel. Oh dear! oh dear! it 's very clear They can't live so; but they dare n't let go-Fate for a pitying world to wail, Starving behind a Tiger's tail. If Invention be Necessity's son, Now let him tell them what 's to be done. Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout. Note! mark! what a capital lark! Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all, Baffled by what is about to befall. Excellent! marvelous! beautiful! O! Is n't it now an original go! What, stop! I'm ready to drop. Hold! stay! I'm fainting away. Laughter I'm certain will kill me to-day; And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail, Though temper has all gone wrong with him. No! they 've tied a knot in the Tiger's tail, And he carried the Tub along with him; He's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint, The Old Sexton. NIGH to a grave that was newly made, A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in—I gather them in— Gather-gather-I gather them in. “I gather them in; for man and boy, But come they stranger, or come they kin, I gather them in—I gather them in. "Many are with me, yet I 'm alone; I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!" And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train Wound mutely over that solemn plain; And I said to myself: When time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din ; "I gather them in-I gather them in— Gather-gather—gather them in.” PARK BENJAMIN. The Private of the Buffs. LAST night among his fellow-roughs, To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, A heart with English instinct fraught Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame, He only knows that not through him Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, |