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And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,-
Pray tell me, swectest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And, when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.

THE SPECTRE PIG.

A BALLAD.

IT was the stalwart butcher man
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle Pig

Lay stretched upon the ground,

And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.

They took him then, those wicked men,
They trailed him all along ;
They put a stick between his lips,

And through his heels a thong;

And round and round an oaken beam A hempen cord they flung,

And, like a mighty pendulum,

All solemnly he swung!

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,

And think what thou hast done,

And read thy catechism well,

Thou bloody-minded one;

For, if his sprite should walk by night,

It better were for thee

That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,-
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes;

All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,

And, in his soft simplicity,

Out spoke the tender child:

O father, father, list to me;
The Pig is deadly sick,

And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."

It was the bloody butcher then

That laughed as he would die,
Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child,
And bid him not to cry;-

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,

That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,-
Fast fell the tear-drops big;

"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!
The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed;
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,

And softly over all the west

The shades of evening came.

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,

Wide yawned their mortal seams

The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard ;

He opened both his eyes,

And sullenly he shook his tail

To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord,-
One struggle and one bound,—
With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The Pig was on the ground!

And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;
And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
And open swung the door,

And little mincing feet were heard

Pat pat along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,

And two upon the bed;

And they are breathing side by side,

The living and the dead!

Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes thy cheek so pale?

Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail?

Untwisted every winding coil;

The shuddering wretch took hold;

All like an icicle it seemed,

So tapering and so cold.

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"—

He strives to loose his grasp,
But faster than the clinging vine
Those twining spirals clasp.

And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;

They called full loud, they knocked full long,
They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam
A trampled pathway ran;

A ghastly shape was swinging there,―
It was the butcher man.

PARK BENJAMIN.

[Born in 1809 at Demerara, of a New England family; died towards 1865 Practised as an attorney at Boston. Afterwards took to magazine-writing and general literature, and published a great number of compositions, in verse and prose. Two of his principal poems are satires, named Poetry and Infatuation].

INDOLENCE.

THERE is no type of indolence like this :-
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying;
The wave unstirred about her huge sides lying,
No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss,
Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft :
Sailors recumbent, listless, stretched around
Upon the polished deck or canvas-soft

To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found
A bed more tender, since his mother's knee
The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea.

Some are asleep; some whistle, try to sing;
Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail;
Some damn the calm, and wish it was a gale.

But every lubber there is lazy as a king.

MATTHEW C. FIELD.

[Born in 1812, died in 1844. Irish by parentage, and a Londoner by place of birth, but living in the United States from four years of age. He published much verse, and much prose also, in journals of the Southern States, from 1834 onwards].

TO MY SHADOW.

SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men,

Constant and close to friends while fortune's bright.
You leave me in the dark, but come again
And stick to me as long as there is light.

Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done,
You've never stepped between me and the sun;
But ready still to back me I have found you
Although, indeed, you're fond of changing sides;
And, while I never yet could get around you,
Where'er I walk my Shadow with me glides!
That you should leave me in the dark is meet
Enough, there being one thing to remark-

Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet,
I'm keeping you for ever in the dark!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

[Born in 1816. A barrister and newspaper editor, highly popular in the States for his humorous or burlesque poems-some of them modelled very closely on Hood, and others on Barham].

THE GHOST-PLAYER.

A BALLAD.

TOM GOODWIN was an actor man,
Old Drury's pride and boast

In all the light and sprite-ly parts,
Especially the Ghost.

Now Tom was very fond of drink,
Of almost every sort,
Comparative and positive,
From porter up to port.

But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff

For any man to sup;

For, when it fails to pull him down,
It's sure to blow him up.

And so it fared with ghostly Tom,
Who day by day was seen
A-swelling, till (as lawyers say)
He fairly lost his lean.

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