John Jackson, once a soldier bold… Hath still a martial feeling; So, when he sees a foe, behold! He charges him-with stealing. He cares not how much ground to-da…

Come, sisters, weep!-our Baron de… Alas! has run away. If always we had kept him here He had not gone astray. Painter and grainer it were vain

Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not fo… To blubber o’er Max Taubles for h… By Heaven! my hearty, if you only… How better is a grave-worm in the… Than brains like yours-how far mor…

I know not if it was a dream. I v… A city where the restless multitud… Between the eastern and the wester… Had reared gigantic fabrics, stron… Colossal palaces crowned every hei…

His caw is a cackle, his eye is di… And he mopes all day on the lowest… Not a word says he, but he snaps h… And twitches his palsied head, as… The ultimate plume of his pride an…

Filled with a zeal to serve my fel… For years I criticised their pros… Pointed out all their blunders of… Their shallowness of thought and f… Damned them up hill and down with…

What! ‘Out of danger?’ Can the sl… Or canting Pharisee no more defam… Will Treachery caress my hand no… Nor Hatred He alurk about my door… Ingratitude, with benefits dismiss…

Good Parson Dickson preached, I’… A sermon-ah, ‘twas very old And very, very, bald! ’Twas all about-I know not what It was about, nor what ‘twas not.

‘I never yet exactly could determi… Just how it is that the judicial e… Is kept so safely from predacious… ‘It is not so, my friend: though i… ’Tis kept in camphor, and you ofte…

Great Joseph D. Redding-illustri… Considered a fish-horn the trumpet… That goddess was angry, and what d… Her trumpet she filled with a gall… And all through the Press, with a…

'Tis the census enumerator A-singing all forlorn: It’s ho! for the tall potater, And ho! for the clustered corn. The whiffle-tree bends in the bree…

Munhall, to save my soul you brave… Although, to save my soul, I can’… ‘Tis naught to you, to me however… Why, bless it! you might save a mi… Yet lose your own; for still the ’…

Alas, alas, for the tourist’s guid… He turned from the beaten trail as… Wandered bewildered, lay down and… O grim is the Irony of Fate: It switches the man of low estate

Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, The wisest and the best of men, Betook him to the place where sat With folded feet upon a mat Of precious stones beneath a palm,

Slain as they lay by the secret, s… Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, Two score thousand old soldiers ha… The river to join the loved and lo… In the space of a year their spiri…