THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. A BALLAD. AN Attorney was taking a turn, His breeches had suffered a breach, JOHN G. SAXE. His linen and worsted were worse; And thus as he wandered along, "Unfortunate man that I am! I've never a client but grief; 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 "'Tis not that I'm wanting in law, While I have to plead for a case. “(), how can a modest young man 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 emotions, he sat On the curb-stone the space of a minute, 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 his end! "The man was a lawyer, I hear," Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse; A third said, "He knew the deceased, "Twas no doubt from the want of a cause." The jury decided at length, After solemnly weighing the matter, “That the lawyer was drownded, because SONNET TO A CLAM. Dum tacent clamant. INGLORIOUS FRIEND! most confident I am JOHN G. SAXE. Albeit men mock thee with their similes Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. O MARYANNE, you pretty girl, WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, Those eyes, forever drooping, give Hast thou not lent that flounce enough Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped! O might I wind their skeins of thread, How blest the youth whom love shall bring, And happy stars embolden, To change the dome into a ring, The silver into golden! Who'll steal some morning to her side To take her finger's measure, While Maryanne pretends to chide, Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown, Who'll taste those ripenings of the south, The fragrant and delicious— Don't put the pins into your mouth, O Maryanne, my precious! I alınost wish it were my trust To quit this tempting lattice. Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe, Across a street so narrow; A thread of silk to string his bow, A needle for his arrow! |