  By Dr. BULGARDO, L. S. D., Treasurer of several Learned Societies, and Professor of Asparagus at the University of Battersea. BOTANY. TO MARY, WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS. Nay! say not faded—'tis despair Has thus subdued them, for they see That in themselves however fair, They ne'er can hope to equal thee! The Rose's joyous blush has fled, With which no other lip could vie; The Heartsease turns aside its head, Fearing to meet thy deep-blue eye. More sad the Myrtle's hue appears, The Jasmine's silver star is dim; Surpass'd by thee, thou seest the tears That tremble on the Harebell's brim. The Woodland Lily's silver cup Was never seen to droop as now, It dares not lift its flowerets up To gaze upon thy gentle brow. How canst thou look thus calmly on, And watch them slowly die the while? Recal them yet, ere life be gone, Enchantress, with thy sunny smile! HORTICULTURE. TO MOLLY, WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT AND VEGETABLES. Nay! say not shrivell'd—'tis despair Has thus subdued them, for they see That in themselves however fair, They'll ne'er be relish'd, love, like thee! A deeper blush the Raspberry paints, Pale is the ruddy Beetroot's lip; And e'en the red-cheek'd Apple faints, As though it suffer'd from the pip. Severely frown the Baking Pears; The Artichoke's bold crest is down; The awe-struck Medlar wildly stares To see thy cheek a swarthier brown. The icy Cucumber is hot, The freckled Cauliflower wan; The Mushroom has no longer got A single leg to stand upon! See how the rich, round-shoulder'd Figs Bow to thy figure's graceful swell; The sobbing Orange bursts its pigs To find thee such a Nonpareil! The Sister Sciences, female Siamese twins, having vanished from the scene, our correspondent, Mr. H. G. Adams, presented a second specimen of his curious
Some weather-beaten men with clothes all tar-ry, Keeping a sharp look-out upon the ocean, And little Tom, and Jack, and Bill, and Harry, Making upon the beach a dire commotion,— Dabbling, like dab-chicks, in the billows briny, Hunting for crabs, and other things crustaceous, While a Newfoundland dog, in sport called "Tiny," Wags his huge bushy tail, and looks sagacious: Here wades a shrimper to his waist in water, There swims a bather, snorting like a grampus; And lo! James Muddle, with his wife and daughter, All in a boat, and crying out, "Don't swamp us!" Far in the offing you may see a cutter, Her white sails gleaming like the sea-gull's pinions,— She means to overhaul that craft, with butter Laden, and cheese, from swampy Scheldt's dominions; I shouldn't wonder if Schiedam—however, That's not my business;—turn our glances landward, There's Farley in his garden—well, I never!— A-talking down the chimney, to my landlord; He says, "I see you've got some greens for dinner, "And pickled pork," but can't say more for coughing; That smoke just serves him right—the prying sinner! He's always jeering folks, and at them scoffing: White cliffs, and houses, underneath and over, And roads that seem to lead to regions airy— Old boats converted into roofs, that cover Buildings, in shape and size that greatly vary, Denote the place, which popular believings Point out as being made of ends and leavings. Here we were reminded by a particularly ample, and unprecedentedly flaring wood-cut, borne on an appropriate pole past the vehicle, and intended to describe the indescribable effects of the fireworks in the Surrey Zoological Gardens, of a pleasant discourse which we overheard in that suburban retreat. "Quite a gem," cried a lady from Portland Place, contemplating the splendid pictorial model of Rome; "really quite a monument of the artist's abilities." "I see St. Paul's," said a lady from Shadwell, who was standing by, looking at the same time at the crowning feature of the picture, "I see St. Paul's quite plain, but where's the Monument?" "How those butcher-boys do ride!" exclaimed an elderly gentleman in the further corner, as one of the blue-frocked fraternity, with basket on arm, and "spur on heel," dashed past at headlong speed. "Ay, sir, they ride sharp enough," replied his next neighbour, whose bronzed features and brawny shoulders bespoke him a son of old Ocean; "but of all the rough-riding I have ever seen, nothing comes up to The negro boys there are the most cunning imps I have ever had to do with. I recollect on my last voyage to Jamaica, while my vessel was lying in St. Anne's bay, I had to go to Port Maria to look for some cargo; and on my way thither, near Ora CabeÇa, I came to one of the numerous small rivers that empty themselves into the little bays along the coast—I think it was the Salt Gut. When at some distance, I had observed a negro boy belabouring a mule most heartily; but "Who—o! you no go ober? Berry well—me bet you fippenny me make you go—No? Why for you no bet?—why for you no go ober?" Here the mule shook his ears to drive off the flies, which almost devour the poor animals in that climate. "Oh! you do bet—berry well—den me try." The young rascal (he was not more than ten years old) disappeared in the bush, and returned in a few seconds with some strips of fan-weed, a few small pebbles, and a branch of the cactus plant. To put three or four pebbles in each of the mule's ears, and tie them up with the fan-weed, was but the work of a minute. He then jumped on the animal's back, turned round, put the plant to his tail, and off they went, as a negro himself would say, "like mad, massa." Into the water they plunged—the little fellow grinning and showing his teeth in perfect ecstasy. Out they got on the other side—head and ears down—tail and heels up—and the boy's arms flying about as if they did not belong to him; and I lost sight of him as he went over the rocky steep at full gallop, where one false step would have precipitated them into the sea beneath, from whence there would have been but small chance of escape. No, no, a butcher's boy is nothing to a negro boy—the one may ride like the deuce, but the other is the very deuce himself riding. "Did you see any more of him, sir?" inquired a young lady opposite. "Yes, madam, about two hours afterwards I reached Port Maria, and in an open space near the stores, there sat, or rather lay, young Quashie eating cakes; and there also stood the mule, eating guinea grass, and looking much more cheerful than when I first saw him at the Salt Gut. 'Well, Quashie,' I said, 'you have got here I see, but which of you won?'—'Quashie win, massa—Quashie never lose.'—'But will he pay?' I inquired.—'Quashie pay himself, massa. You see, Massa Buccra, massa gib Quashie tenpenny-bit for grass for mule. Quashie bet fippenny him make him go ober de Gut—Quashie win—Quashie hab fippenny for cake, mule hab fippenny for grass.'" "Had that defrauded mule, sir," here interposed a stranger, "been born in Ireland a brief while ago, he would have fallen to and devoured the young nigger out of hand, for cheating him of half his grass; that is, he would, if he had ever read the ancient records of that country, and become acquainted with the fact I am about to relate—but stay, perhaps you may relish it better in slip-shod verse." O'Flyn she was an Irishman, as very well was known, And she lived down by Kilkenny, and she lived there all alone, With only six great large tom-cats as knew their ways about, And ev'ry body else besides she scrup'lously shut out. Oh, very fond o' cats was she—(and whisky too, 'tis said,) She didn't feed 'em very much, but she comb'd 'em well instead; As may be guess'd, these large tom-cats, they didn't get very sleek Upon a combing once a-day, and a "ha'porth" once a-week. Now on one dreary winter's night, O'Flyn she went to bed, The whisky-bottle under her arm, (the whisky in her head,) The six great large tom-cats they sat all in a dismal row, And horridly glared their hungry eyes—their tails wagg'd to and fro At last one grim greymalkin spoke in accents dire to tell, And dreadful were the words which in his awful whisper fell— When all the other five tom-cats in answer loud did squall, "Let's kill her—and let's eat her—body and bones and all!" Oh horrible! oh terrible! oh deadly tale to tell! When the sun shone in the window-hole all there seem'd still and well; The cats they sat and lick'd their paws, all in a merry ring, But nothing else within the place looked like a living thing; Anon they quarrell'd savagely, and spit, and swore, and hollo'd, Till at last these six great large tom-cats they one another swallow'd; And nought but one long tail was left in that once peaceful dwelling, And a very tough one too it was—it's the same as I've been telling. [C. B.] In the Character of Marie Stuart. |
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