A famous journalist, who long Had told the great unheaded throng Whate’er they thought, by day or n… Was true as Holy Writ, and right, Was caught in-well, on second thou…

'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystande… For her acts are light and free. In a seven-ounce costume

Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the… Of qualities to meaner beasts deni… Surveys the ass with reverence and… Adoring his superior length of ear… And says: ‘No living creature, le…

Yawp, yawp, yawp! Under the moon and sun. It’s aye the rabble, And I to gabble, And hey! for the tale that is neve…

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

Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and… Most rare and excellent bequest Of dying idiot to the wit He died of, rat-like, in a pit! Thyself disguised, in many a way

'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…

I drew aside the Future’s veil And saw upon his bier The poet Whitman. Loud the wail And damp the falling tear. 'He’s dead-he is no more!' one cri…

I dreamed I stood upon a hill, an… The godly multitudes walked to and… Beneath, in Sabbath garments fitl… With pious mien, appropriately sad… While all the church bells made a…

Come, gentlemen-your gold. Thanks: welcome to the show. To hear a story told In words you do not know. Now, great Salvini, rise

From end to end, thine avenue, Va… Rang with the cries of battle and… Brave lungs were thundering with d… And perspiration smoked along the… Sing, heavenly muse, to ears of mo…

Big Smith is an Oakland School B… And he looks as good as ever he ca… And he’s such a cold and a chaste… That snowflakes all are his kin an… Wherever his eye he chances to thr…

A rat who’d gorged a box of bane And suffered an internal pain, Came from his hole to die (the lab… Required it if the rat were able) And found outside his habitat

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…

‘What is that, mother?’ ‘The funny man, child. His hands are black, but his heart… ‘May I touch him, mother?’ ‘T were foolishly done: