Nature to him her stings of rancor gave
To shed, unseen, the venom of a knave;
She gave him cunning, every treacherous
art,

She gave him all things but an upright heart;

And one thing more - she gave him but the pen,

No power to hurt, not even the brass of

men,

Whose breasts though furies with their passions rule

Yet laugh at satire, pointed by a fool.

Was there no world but ours to give you room?

No Patagonia, for your savage home,
No region, where antarctic oceans roll,
No icy island, neighboring to the pole?

By dark suspicion led, you aim at all
Who will not to your sceptred idol fall;
To work their ruin, every baseness try,
First envy, next abuse us, then belie.

Such is your stretch! and thus awhile go on!
Your shafts rebound, and yet have injured

none.

Hurt whom they will, let who will injured

be,

The sons of smut and scandal hurt not me.

TO A CATY-DID

IN a branch of willow hid
Sings the evening Caty-did:
From the lofty locust bough
Feeding on a drop of dew,
In her suit of green arrayed
Hear her singing in the shade
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!

While upon a leaf you tread,
Or repose your little head
On your sheet of shadows laid,
All the day you nothing said:
Half the night your cheery tongue
Revelled out its little song,

Nothing else but Caty-did.

From your lodging on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief? Did you only mean to say,

Tell me, what did Caty do ? Did she mean to trouble you? Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Caty-did? Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing, Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

Why continue to complain? Caty tells me she again Will not give you plague or pain; Caty says you may be hid, Caty will not go to bed While you sing us Caty-did, Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did!

But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not: Caty did not think of cold, Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter with his wrinkles old; Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did.

pine spars;

As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;

With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,

And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short'ning sail by him

who walked the poop,

And under the press of her pond'ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore, And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench'd on Waterford Tower.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?

'Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees,

For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four

We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past

"Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!" Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark.

"Out booms! out booms!" our skipper cried, "out booms and give her sheet,"

And the swiftest keel that was ever . launched shot ahead of the British fleet,

And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun'-sails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

Their honors, well he knew, would ne'er be driven;

But hoped they still would please to go to heaven.

Each week he paid his visitation dues; Coaxed, jested, laughed; rehearsed the private news;

Smoked with each goody, thought her cheese excelled;

Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held. Or placed in some great town, with lacquered shoes,

Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,

He bowed, talked politics, learned manners mild,

Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smiled;

At rich men's jests laughed loud, their stories praised,

Their wives' new patterns gazed, and gazed, and gazed;

66

quoth he.

"I know your meaning," Joan replied,
But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied;
I will go on, and let you know
What work poor women have to do:
First, in the morning, though we feel
As sick as drunkards when they reel,
Yes, feel such pains in back and head
As would confine you men to bed,
We ply the brush, we wield the broom,
We air the beds, and right the room;
The cows must next be milked and then
We get the breakfast for the men.
Ere this is done, with whimpering cries,
And bristly hair, the children rise;

Old Darby rose and seized the broom
And whirled the dirt about the room:
Which having done, he scarce knew how,
He hied to milk the brindled cow.
The brindled cow whisked round her tail
In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.
The clown, perplexed with grief and
pain,

Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again:
When turning round, in sad amaze,
He saw his cottage in a blaze:

For as he chanced to brush the room,
In careless haste, he fired the broom.
The fire at last subdued, he swore
The broom and he would meet no more.
Pressed by misfortune, and perplext,
Darby prepared for breakfast next;
But what to get he scarcely knew—
The bread was spent, the butter too.
His hands bedaubed with paste and flour,
Old Darby labored full an hour:
But, luckless wight! thou couldst not
make

Return, my Joan, as heretofore, I'll play the housewife's part no more: Since now, by sad experience taught, Compared to thine my work is naught; Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take, Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, And never more transgress the line

Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.

Then Joan, return, as heretofore,
I'll vex thy honest soul no more;
Let's each our proper task attend
Forgive the past, and strive to mend."