To one's parents 'tis gratefully due

Just think what a terrible thing 'Twould have been, sir, for me and for you, If ours had forgotten the ring! Then there's the economy-clear, By poetical algebra shown-If your wife has a grief or a fear,

One half, by the law, is your own!
And as to the joys-by division,

They're nearly quadrupled, 'tis said,
(Though I never could see the addition
Quite plain in the item of bread).
Remember, I do not pretend
There's anything perfect about it,
But this I'll aver to the end,

Then coffee and tea, both green and bohea,

Is served to their tables in plate;
Where their tattles do run as swift as the sun,
Of what they have won, and who is undone,
By their gaming and sitting up late.

The lass give me here, though brown as my beer,
That knows how to govern her house;
That can milk her cow, or farrow her sow,
Make butter and cheese, or gather green peas,
And values fine clothes not a sous.

This is the girl, worth rubies and pearl;

This is the wife that will make a man rich;
We gentlemen need no quality breed.
To squander away what taxes would pay,
In troth we care for none such.

UNKNOWN.

Fugitive Poetry. (Warne.)

THOUGH matches are all made in Heaven, they say, Yet Hymen (who mischief oft hatches) Sometimes deals with the house t'other side of the

way,

And there they make Lucifer matches.

SAMUEL LOVER. Poetical Works. (Routledge.)

MARRYING IN HASTE.

(From "The Parish Register.")

THESE are the happier pairs, their life has rest, Their hopes are strong, their humble portion blest, While those more rash to hasty marriage led, Lament th' impatience which now stints their bread;

When such their union, years their cares increase,

Their love grows colder, and their pleasures cease;

In health just fed, in sickness just relieved;
By hardships harass'd, and by children grieved:
In petty quarrels and in peevish strife
The once fond couple waste the spring of life;
But when to age mature their children grown,
Find hopes and homes and hardships of their own,
The harass'd couple feel their lingering woes
Receding slowly till they find repose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

LOVE in an attic, on dry bread to feed,-
That's one view of the "upper crust" indeed.
HENRY J. BYRON.
Aladdin. (French.)

FOR now the world is grown so wary That few of either sex care marry.

SAMUEL BUTLER. Hudibras.

[AND] hence I courted Nobody,

And said Nobody's I'd be, And asked to marry Nobody, And Nobody married me. Thus I trudge along with Nobody, And Nobody cheers my life, And I have a love for Nobody, Which nobody has for his wife.

UNKNOWN.

His genius and his prospects? Well;
Can you eat prospects? Will they sell?
And will his trumpery genius be
A dinner-or only a dinner bell?

WALTER C. SMITH.
Olrig Grange. (Maclehose, Glasgow.)

ROBERT BUrns.

A FAITHFUL maid, and then a loving wife, May give the poorest man the richest life. GUY ROSLYN.

Village Verses. (Moxon and Co.)

BUT oh, what pity 'tis to find

Such beauties both of form and mind,
By modern breeding much debased,
In half the female world at least!
Hence I with care such lotteries shun,
Where, a prize missed, I'm quite undone;
And ha'n't, by venturing on a wife,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.

MATTHEW GREEN.

"DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?"

MADAM, you are very pressing,

And I can't decline the task; With the slightest gift of guessing, You would scarcely need to ask!

Don't you see a hint of marriage
In his sober-sided face,
In his rather careless carriage,
And extremely rapid pace?
If he's not committed treason,

Or some wicked action done,
Can you see the faintest reason
Why a bachelor should run?

Why should he be in a flurry?
But a loving wife to greet
Is a circumstance to hurry

The most dignified of feet!
When afar the man has spied her,
If the grateful, happy elf
Does not haste to be beside her,
He must be beside himself!

It is but a trifle, maybe,

But observe his practised tone When he calms your stormy baby, Just as if it were his own.

Do

you

think a certain meekness You have mentioned in his looks Is a chronic optic weakness

That has come of reading books? Did you ever see his vision

Peering underneath a hood,
Save enough for recognition,
As a civil person should?
Could a Capuchin be colder

When he glances, as he must,
At a finely-rounded shoulder,
Or a proudly-swelling bust?
Madam! mark his every feature,
And deny it if you can,—
He's a fond connubial creature,
And a very married man!

J. G. SAXE.
Poems. (Ward, Lock, and Co.)