Colonel John Hay. [Colonel Hay was born about 1830, and his "Pike County Ballads" was published sometime in the 1870's. One poem, 'Little Breeches," is singularly powerful, but like "Jim Bludso" is a trifle strong for British tastes.] THE ENCHANTED SHIRT. Fytte ye Firste: wherein it shall be shown how ye Truth is too mightie a Drugge for such as be of feeble temper. THE King was sick. His cheek was red And his eye was clear and bright; And peacefully snored at night. But he said he was sick, and a king should know, They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, At last two famous doctors came, The other had never looked in a book; Together they looked at the royal tongue, The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.” The other leech grew a shade pale ; But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, The King will be well if he sleeps one night Fytte y Seconde: telleth of ye search for ye Shirte and how it was nighe founde but was note, for reasons qu: are sayd or sung. Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, They found poor men who would fain be rich, They saw two men by the roadside sit, At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled and sang and laughed and rolled The weary couriers paused and looked And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! "O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad." "This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright. "I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, “I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, Fytte ye Third: Shewing how Hys Majestie ye King came at last to sleepe in a Happie Man his Shirte. Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And out he went in the world and toiled And the people blessed him, the land was glad, Imaginashun, tew mutch indulged in, soon iz tortured into reality; this iz one way that good hoss thiefs are made, a man leans over a fence all day, and imagines the hoss in the lot belongs tew him, and sure enuff, the fust dark night, the hoss does. JOSH BILLINGS. A TALE OF A NOSE. 'TWAS a hard case, that which happened in Lynn. Haven't heard of it, eh? Well then, to begin, There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose," Who travels about, and buys old clothes. Now Mose-which the same is short for Moses Had one of the biggest kind of noses: It had a sort of an instep in it, And he fed it with snuff about once a minute. One day he got in a bit of a row With a German chap who had kissed his frau, He picked it up from off the ground, Which he in his haste that day did make; "There's no great loss without some gain;" One thing, by the way, he forgets to add, |