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Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation join'd each one to one ;-
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catling's cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,
As cataphracts their arms through legions bear;
"Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away
Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She ling’ring died, nor left in kit kat the
Embodyment of this catastrophe.

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES.

JOHN GAY.

My passion is as mustard strong;

I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,

Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;

I drink, yet can't forget her;
For though as drunk as David's sow

I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,

If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see

The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,,

And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,

Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,

And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown,

But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat,

Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that,

Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,

She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown,

And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach

Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach,

Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail

The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail

Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,

O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares,

And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,

No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen,

And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,

Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds

Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as her needle are her words,

Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,

Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,

Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,

And happy as a king:
Good Lord! how all men envied me!

She loved like any thing.

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'My Tobles! Meat it is, I set it down!"_HAMLET.

I THINK it was Spring—but not certain I am

When my passion began first to work;
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,

And the season was over for pork.

'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase,

Yes—for Morris had asked me to dine-
And I thought I had never beheld such a face,

Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild

With sheer envy, to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled

As I afterward offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost,

Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love—but my heart was quite lost

When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,

To her parents I told my designs,
And then to herself I presented my hand,

With a very fine pottle of pines !
I asked her to have me for weal or for

woe,
And she did not object in the least ;-
I can't tell the date—but we married I know

Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to it certainly was the sea-side;

For the next, the most blessed of morns,
I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,

Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.
O, never may memory lose sight of that year,

But still hallow the time as it ought!
That season the “grass” was remarkably dear,

And the peas at a guinea a quart.
So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste,

A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,
So united in heart-so congenial in tastem

We were both of us partial to brawn!
A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,

But then Death-I ne'er dreamt about that!
O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried

When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,

But the cause no physician could nab;
But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear-

It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,

Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relished the most,

Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,

While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out,

As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men,

To indulge in a widower's moan;
Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then,

As I ate my first “natives" alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks,

And with sorrowful crape on their hats,
O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks

Were all crying—I think it was sprats !

FAITIILESS NELLY GRAY.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

THOMAS HOOD.

Ben BATTLE was a soldier bold,

And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field,

Said he, “Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,

And the Forty-second Foot!"

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