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Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Iladdem. "But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers :

He never jawed in all his life,

He never was onkind,-
And (tho’ I say it that was his wise)

Such men you seldom lind. (That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)

I never changed my single lot,

I thought’twould be a sin—

(though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o chances or not, but there's them 'livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks knows what was the nature o’Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho’ bis wife and Miss Jinkins does say I vied so ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon fecis wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch,"—seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, but I goes on to say

I never changed my single lot,

I thought 'twould be a sin, --
For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott.

I never got married agin.
If ever a hasty word he spoke,

His anger dident last,
But vanished like tobacker sonke

Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be

The wife of such a man,
Tell the men that's after me

To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in

That's a fact,—he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me.

Now only jest think, --widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wise (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa’n’t there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if jusband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott, -and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o'the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents bid up in a napkin,—so you seo 'twas from a sense o doty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I ? Oh!-

If I was sick a single jot,

lie called the doctor in-
I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had,

That felt for all mankind, -
It made him feel amazin' bad

To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted notThat's as true as the Scripturs,—but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you

ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth, besides she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin’-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, where had I got to? Oh, I remember now,

Whiskey and rum he tasted not, –

He thought it was a sin, -
I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.
But now he's dead ! the thought is killin',

Dy grief I can't control-
He never left a single shillin'

His widder to console.

But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o’ health for a number o’year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness, he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon. Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, -begrudged folks their vittals when they.came to his house! did you ever! wny, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper-used to swear like all possests when he got mad, —and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa’n’t a man that ever said anything that wa’n't true),-I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! “ His widder to console,"—ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,-“What did you stop so soon was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't I conclude as follers:

I'll never change my single lot,

I think 'twould be a sin, -
The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott

Don't intend to get married agin.

Excuse my cryin'—my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0-0 !

F. M. hitcher.

CAOCH THE PIPER. .

ONE winter's day, long, long ago,

When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,

Gray-headed, blind, and yellow,-
And, oh! how glad was my young heart,

Though earth and sky look'd dreary, -
To see the stranger and his dog,-

Poor “ Pinch” and Caoch O'Leary.
And when he stowed away his “bag,”

Cross-barr'd with green and yellow,
I thought and said, “in Ireland's ground,

There's not so fine a fellow."
And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,

And Eily, Kate, and Mary,
Rushed in, with panting laste to “see,”

And “ welcome” Caoch O'Leary.

Oh! God be with those happy times,

Oh! God be with my childhood,
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day,

Bird-nesting in the wild-wood, -
I'll not forget those sunny hours,

However year's may vary ;
I'll not forget my early friends,

Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor Caoch and “Pinch” slept well that night,

And in the morning early,
He called me up to liear him play,

“ The wind that shakes the barley."

And then lie stroked my flaxen hair,

And cried—“God mark my deary,' And how I wept when he said “farewell,

And think of Caoch O'Leary.
And seasons came and went, and still

Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although I thought him “dead and gone"

And in the cold clay rotten.
And often when I walked and danced

With Eily, Kate, and Mary,
We spoke of childhoods's rosy hours,

And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well-twenty summers had gone past,

And June's red sun was sinking, When I, a man, sat by my door,

Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,

His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped, -

'Twas “Pinch” and Caoch O'Leary!

Old Caoch! but ah ! how woe-begone!

His form is bowed and bending,
Ilis fleshless hands are stift' and wan,

Ay,--Time is even blending
The colors on liis thread-bare “bag”,-

And “Pinch" is twice as hairy
And “thin-spare” as when first I saw

Himself and Caoch O'Leary.

“God's blessing here,” the wanderer cried,

“ Far, far, be hell's black viper; Does anybody hereabouts

Remember Caoch the Piper?" With swelling heart I grasped his hand;

The old man murmured "deary! Are you the silky-headed child,

That lov'd poor Caoch O'Leary ?”

“ Yesyes," I said-the wanderer wept

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