It has divided me from you,

And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt as people say ;

My ghost can't walk, for, O, my legs
Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,

And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half, Without a quarter's notice.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;

O Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu-a long adieu !

I've solved death's awful riddle,

And would say more, but I am doomed

To break off in the middle!"

THE GHOST.

THOMAS HOOD.

IS thirty years since Abel Law,

A short, round-favored, merry

Old soldier of the Revolutionary
War,

Was wedded to

A most abominable shrew.

The temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catharine Could no more be compared with hers, Than mine

With Lucifer's.

Her eyes were like a weasel's; she had a harsh

Face, like a cranberry marsh,

All spread

With spots of white and red;

Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,

And a disposition like a cross-cut sav
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don't forget the name.

Her brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all;
One of your great, big nothings, as we say
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The ghost, and frighten Abel, who,

He knew,

Would be returning from a journey through A grove of forest wood

That stood

Below

The house some distance—half a mile or so.

With a long taper

Cap of white paper,

Just made to cover

A wig, nearly as large over

As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast,

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) He took

His station near

A huge oak-tree,

Whence he could overlook

The road and see

Whatever might appear

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abe Had left the table

Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,

To taste a flagon

Of malt

Liquor, and so forth, which, being done, He went on,

Caring no more for twenty ghosts,

Than if they were so many posts.

David was nearly tired of waiting; His patience was abating;

At length, he heard the careless tones Of his kinsman's voice,

And then the noise

Of wagon-wheels among the stones. Abel was quite elated, and was roaring With all his might, and pouring

Out, in great confusion,

Scraps of old songs made in "The Revolution."
His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton;
And jovially he went on,

Scaring the whip-poor-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these :-[Sings.]

"See the Yankees leave the hill,

With baggernetts declining,

With lopped-down hats and rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.

See the Yankees-Whoa! Why, what is that?"
Said Abel, staring like a cat,

As slowly on the fearful figure strode

Into the middle of the road.

"My conscience, what a suit of clothes!

Some crazy fellow, I suppose.

Hallo! friend, what's your name? by the powers of

gin,

That's a strange dress to travel in.”

"Be silent, Abel; for I now have come

To read your doom;

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.

I am a spirit-"

"I suppose you are;

But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why: Here is a fact which you cannot deny ;

All spirits must be either good

Or bad-that's understood-

And be you good or evil, I am sure That I'm secure.

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—

And I don't know but you may be the devilIf that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, That I am married to your sister Nancy!"

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

YOUNG BEN he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,

She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"

She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her,

Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make

Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, "They've only taken him

To the Tender ship, you see;"

"The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hardship that must be!

"Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But oh!-I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
Alas! I was not born beneath
The Virgin and the Scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place,
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown.
To see how she went on,

He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John. "O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,

How could you serve me so i
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow."

Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:

They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

THOMAS HOOD.

OF A CERTAIN MAN.

HERE was (not certain when) a certain preacher,

That never learned, and yet became a teacher,

Who having read in Latin thus a text

Of erat quidam homo, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, There was a certain man. "But now," quoth he, "good people, note you this He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain.

promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But, yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, There was a certain woman.* SIR JOHN HARRINGTON.

THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE.

A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.

TERRIBLY proud was Miss MacBride,
The very personification of pride,

As she minced along in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway-on the proper side-
When the golden sun was setting;
There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world or pride in the very sigh

'That her stately bosom was fretting!

O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride,
Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride,
And proud of fifty matters beside-

That wouldn't have borne dissection;
Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk,
Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk,
Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk,"
On a very slight inspection!

Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum;
Proud as the head of a Saracen

Over the door of a tippling-shop!—
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
'Proud as a boy with a brand-new top,"
Proud beyond comparison !

And yet the pride of Miss MacBride,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,

Had really no foundation;

But, like the fabrics that gossips devire
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size-

Was merely a fancy creation!

Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high-
For Miss MacBride first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion-

And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion !

Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth

Among our "fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers-
Not even a couple of rotten peers-
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy !

English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish
In one conglomeration!
So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed,

No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed
In finding the circulation.

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend,
Your family thread you can't ascend,
Without good reason to apprehend
You may find it waxed, at the farther end,
By some plebeian vocation!
Or, worse than that, your boasted line
May end in a loop of stronger twine,

That plagued some worthy relation!
But Miss MacBride had something beside
Her lofty birth to nourish her pride-
For rich was the old paternal MacBride,

According to public rumor:

And he lived "up town," in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
And gave her gems that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,

And feathers enough to plume her.

A thriving tailor begged her hand,
But she gave "the fellow" to understand,
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorned the best of his clan,
And reckoned the ninth of any man
An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was the golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,

In a way that was quite appalling;
For, though a regular sutor by trade,
He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid,
Who cut him off with a saw-and bade
“The cobbler keep to his calling!"

A young attorney, of winning grace,
Was scarce allowed to "open his face,"
Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case

With true judicial celerity;

For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot,
And to say the lady discarded his suit,

Is merely a double verity!

The last of those who came to court,
Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort,
"Without any visible means of support,"
A crime by no means flagrant
In one who wears an elegant coat,
But the very point on which they vote
A ragged fellow "a vagrant!"

Now dapper Jim his courtship plied
(I wish the fact could be denied)

With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride
And really "nothing shorter!"

For he said to himself, in his greedy lust.
"Whenever he dies-as die he must-
And yields to Heaven his vital trust,
He's very sure to come down with his dust,'
In behalf of his only daughter."

in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile;
And wrings the bel and toles it when men dyes,
to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths
And for the servusses get $100 per annum,
Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it;
Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and
Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold

As zero, and like as not green wood for kindling
i would n't be hired to do it for no sum,
But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity
Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin,
Worth more than anything except the sole of man!
i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are!
O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no
What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about
Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts!
in short, it's jest "fre as are" out dores,
But O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty,
Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for mischuns,
Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me,

wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but, O Sextant
U shet 500 men, wimmin, and children,
Speshally the latter, up in a tite place,
And every 1 on em brethes in and out, and out and in.
Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths

an our.

Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate,
I ask you-say 15 minits-and then wats to be did?
Why then you must brethe it all over agin,

And then agin, and so on till each has took it down
At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more
The same individoal don't have the priviledge
of brethin his own are, and no ones else,
Each must take whatever comes to him.

O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses,
To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out;
and how can bellusses blo without wind?
And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens.
Are is the same to us as milk to babies,
Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox,
Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor,

Or little pills unto an omepath,

Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe,
What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe?
Wats Pol? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded?
Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy
Its only coz we cant brethe no more, thats all.
And now O Sextant, let me beg of you
To let a little are into our church.
(Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews)
And do it weak days, and Sundays tew,
It aint much trouble, only make a hole
And the are will come of itself;

(It luvs to come in where it can git warm)
And O how it will rouze the people up,
And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps,
And yawns and figgits, as effectooal

wind on the dry boans the Profit tells of.

ARABELLA M. WILLSON.

MY LORD TOMNODDY.

Y Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,

He had nothing to do,

So his lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb.

His boots were polished, his jacket was trim
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat :
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

He stood in his stockings just four foot ten : And he asked as he held the door on the swing", 'Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,
"Malibran's dead,
Duvernay's fled,

Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,
What may a nobleman find to do?"

Tim looked up and Tim looked down, He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, And he held up his hat and he peepest in the crown, He bit his lip, and he scratched his head, He let go the handle, and thus he said

As the door, released, behind him banged : "An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hanged."

My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news "Run to M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues
Rope-dancers a score

I've seen before

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more:

But to see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"
My Lord Tomnoddy stepped into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;

Through street. and through square,
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air,
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm,

But did no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismayAn old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,

And upsetting a stall

Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall;