Now PETER arriving, and seeing the veil

All covered o'er

And reeking with gore,

Turned all of a sudden exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail,
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor PETER
Made up his mind, in very short metre,

That THISBE was dead, and the lion had eat her!

So breathing a prayer,
He determined to share

The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost, "
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!

Now THISBE returning, and viewing her beau,
Lying dead by the veil (which she happened to know),
She guessed, in a moment, the cause of his erring,

And seizing the knife

Which had taken his life,

In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring!

MORAL.

Young gentlemen! pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make assignations near mulberry-trees;
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself till you know she is dead.

Young ladies! you should n't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out,
And remember that accidents often befall

From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall !

A A

THE CHOICE OF KING MIDAS.

K

ING MIDAS, prince of Phrygia, several thousand

years ago, Was a very worthy monarch, as the classic annals show;

You may read 'em at your leisure, when you have a mind to doze, In the finest Latin verses, or in choice Hellenic prose.

Now this notable old monarch, King of Phrygia, as aforesaid

(Of whose royal state and character there might be vastly more said),

Though he occupied a palace, kept a very open door, And had still a ready welcome for the stranger and the

poor.

Now it chanced that old Silenus, who, it seems, had lost his way,

Following Bacchus through the forest, in the pleasant month of May

(Which was n't very singular, for at the present day The followers of Bacchus very often go astray),

Came at last to good King MIDAS, who received him in his court,

Gave him comfortable lodgings, and to cut the matter short

With as much consideration treated weary old Silenus, As if the entertainment were for Mercury or Venus.

Now when Bacchus heard the story, he proceeded to the king,

And says he: "By old Silenus you have done the handsome thing;

He's my much-respected tutor, who has taught me how to read,

And I'm sure your royal kindness should receive its proper meed;

"So I grant you full permission to select your own reward.

Choose a gift to suit your fancy, - something worthy of a lord!"

“Bully Bacche!" cried the monarch, "if I do not make too bold,

Let whatever I may handle be transmuted into gold!"

MIDAS, sitting down to dinner, sees the answer to his wish,

For the turbot on the platter turns into a golden fish! And the bread between his fingers is no longer wheaten

bread,

But the slice he tries to swallow is a wedge of gold instead!

And the roast he takes for mutton fills his mouth with golden meat,

Very tempting to the vision, but extremely hard to eat; And the liquor in his goblet, very rare, select, and old, Down the monarch's thirsty throttle runs a stream of liquid gold!

Quite disgusted with his dining, he betakes him to his bed;

But, alas! the golden pillow does n't rest his weary head!

Nor does all the gold around him soothe the monarch's tender skin;

Golden sheets, to sleepy mortals, might as well be sheets of tin!

Now poor MIDAS, straight repenting of his rash and foolish choice,

Went to Bacchus, and assured him, in a very plaintive voice,

That his golden gift was working in a manner most unpleasant,

And the god, in sheer compassion, took away the fatal present.

MORAL.

By this mythologic story we are very plainly told,
That, though gold may have its uses, there are better

things than gold;

That a man may sell his freedom to procure the shining pelf:

And that Avarice, though it prosper, still contrives to cheat itself!

D

PHAËTHON;

OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

AN PHAËTHON — so the histories run
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN, -

Or rather of PHOEBUS; but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another.
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA !

Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun

To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN”;

Running, they say,

Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),

All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's " shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the SUN!
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!"
"Then by my head,"