Is now a sorry playhouse wight,

Content to make the groundlings wonder, And earn some shillings every night,

By coining cheap theatric thunder.

Apollo, who in better times

Was poet-laureate of th' Elysians,
And, adding medicine to rhymes,

Was chief among the court physicians,
Now cures disease of every grade,
Lucina's cares and Cupid's curses, -
And, still to ply his double trade,
Bepuffs his pills in doggerel verses!

Minerva, famous in her day

For wit and war,

though often shocking

The gods by overmuch display

Of what they called her azure stocking, – Now deals in books of ancient kind

(Where Learning soars and Fancy grovels),

And, to indulge her warlike mind,

Writes very sanguinary novels.

And Venus, who on Ida's seat

In myrtle-groves her charms paraded,
Displays her beauty in the street,
And seems, indeed, a little faded ;

She's dealing in the clothing-line

(If at her word you choose to take her), In Something Square you read the sign : "MISS CYTHEREA, MANTUAMAKER.”

Mars figures still as god of war,

But not with spear and iron hanger,

Erect upon the ponderous car

That rolled along with fearful clangor, — Ah! no; of sword and spear bereft,

He stands beside his bottle-holder, And plumps his right, and plants his left, And strikes directly from the shoulder.

And Bacchus, reared among the vines
That flourished in the fields Elysian,
And ruddy with the rarest wines

That ever flashed upon the vision, –
A licensed liquor-dealer now,

Sits pale and thin from over-dosing With whiskey, made - the deuce knows how, And brandy of his own composing.

And cunning Mercury, — what d'

ye think
Is now the nimble rogue's condition?
Of course 't was but a step, to sink
From Peter Funk to politician;
Though now he neither steals nor robs,
But just secures a friend's election,
And lives and thrives on little jobs
Connected with the Street Inspection.

Thus all the gods, in deep disguise,
Go in and out of wooden portals,

And, to the sharpest human eyes,

Seem nothing more than common mortals.

And so they live, as best they may,

Quite unsuspected of their neighbors,

And, in a humbler sort of way,

Repeat their old Olympic labors.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

IT

A BALLAD.

T was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well, —
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod, -
So even ran his line of life,

His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said

He never had a wish,

No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,

Nor cared about a name,

For though much famed for fish was he, He never fished for fame.

Let others bend their necks at sight
Of Fashion's gilded wheels,

He ne'er had learned the art to "bob"
For anything but eels.

A cunning fisherman was he,
His angles all were right;
The smallest nibble at his bait

Was sure to prove "a bite"!

70

All day this fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,

And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog;

With all the seeming innocence,
And that unconscious look, '
That other people often wear
When they intend to "hook"!

To charm the fish he never spoke, -
Although his voice was fine,
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line.

And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, this angler had
A mighty taking way.

Alas! one day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog,
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't keep the log.

'T was all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore;
Down - down he went, to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before.

The jury gave their verdict that
'T was nothing else but gin
Had caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in ;

Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter,
To be exact about the fact,

Was, clearly, gin-and-water!

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear, -
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man at last

MY

COMIC MISERIES.

I.

Y dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,

Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"

For all your merry ways;

But learn to wear a sober phiz,

Be stupid, if you can,

It's such a very serious thing

To be a funny man!

II.

You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks, -
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes: