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The good, the bad, his golden favor prize,
The high, the low, the simple, and the wise,
The young, the old, the stately, and the gay,-
All bow obedient to his royal sway!

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He builds the house where Christian people pray,
And rears a bagnio just across the way;
Pays to the priest his stinted annual fee;
Rewards the lawyer for his venal plea!
Sends an apostle to the heathen's aid;
And cheats the Choctaws for the good of trade;
Lifts by her heels an Ellsler to renown,
Or, bribing “Jenny," brings an angel down!

He builds the Theatres and gambling Halls,
Lloyds and Almacks, St. Peter's and St. Paul's;
Sin's gay retreats, and Fashion's gilded rooms,
Hotels and Factories, Palaces and Tombs ;
Bids Commerce spread her wings to every gale;
Bends to the breeze the Pirate's bloody sail;
Helps Science seek new worlds among the stars;
Profanes our own with mercenary wars;
The friend of wrong, the equal friend of right,
Oft may we bless and oft deplore his might,
As buoyant hope or darkening fears prevail,
And good or evil turns the moral scale.

To me the boon may gracious Heaven assign,No cringing suppliant at Mammon's shrine, Nor slave of Poverty—with joy to share The happy mean expressed in Agur's prayer;A house (my own) to keep me safe and warm, A shade in sunshine, and a shield in storm; A generous board, and fitting raiment, clear Of debts and duns throughout the circling year; Silver and gold, in moderate store, that I May purchase joys that only these can buy; Some gems of art, a cultured mind to please, Books, pictures, statues, literary ease. That “Time is Money” prudent Franklin shows In rhyming couplets and sententious prose.

Oh, had he taught the world in prose and rhyme,
The higher truth that Money may be Time!
And showed the people, in his pleasant ways,
The art of coining dollars into days ! -
Days for improvement, days for social life,
Days for your God, your children, and your wife;
Some days for pleasure, and an hour to spend
In genial converse with an honest friend.
Such days be mine!-and grant me, Heaven, but this,
With blooming health, man's highest earthly bliss,-
And I will read, without a sigh or frown,
The startling news that stocks are going down;
Hear without envy that a stranger hoards
Or spends more treasure than a mint affords ;
See my next neighbor pluck a golden plum,
Calm and content within my cottage-home;
Take for myself what honest thrift may bring,
And for his kindness bless the Money-King!


An Attorney was taking a turn,

In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,

And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,

His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,

And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,

A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,

Or complainingly talked to himself:
“ Unfortunate man that I am!

I've never a client but grief:
The case is, I've no case at all,

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief !
“I've waited and waited in vain,

Expecting an 'opening' to find,

Where an honest young lawyer might gain

Some reward for toil of his mind.

'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,

Or lack an intelligent face, That others have cases to plead,

While I have to plead for a case.

“O, how can a modest young man

E'er hope for the smallest progression, The profession's already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession!”

While thus he was strolling around,

His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground,

And he sighed to himself, “ It is well!”

To curb his emotion, he sat

On the curbstone the space of a minute, Then cried, “Here's an opening at last!”

And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came,

('Twas the coroner bade them attend,) To the end that it might be determined

How the man had determined bis end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse. "A lawyer! Alas!” said another,

“Undoubtedly died of remorse!"

A third said, “He knew the deceased,

An attorney well versed in the laws, And as to the cause of his death,

'Twas no doubt for the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length,

After solemnly weighing the matter, That the lawyer was drownded, because

He could not keep his head above water!


“God bless the man who first invented sleep!”

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep

His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it—as the lucky fellow mightA close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep,

(I really can't avoid the iteration ;) But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,

Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off-Early Rising!

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,”

Observes some solemn sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said;

But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all!

"The time for honest folks to be a-bed,”

Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who cannot keep his precious head

Upon his pillow till it's fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks !

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Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said

It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said it-lying—in his bed,

At ten o'clock A.M.—the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,–

Awake to duty, and awake to truth,But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep.

"Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,

To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!
So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase

Of vagrant worm by early 'songster caught,
Cried, “Served him right! it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!”

DAN PHAETHON 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 Phaëthon 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 wasn'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

flashed volumes of fury and fire,

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