Ez fer the war, I go agin' it,—

I mean to say I kind o' du,Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,

The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid,

I sign to thet with all my heart,— But civlyzation does git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter
I never hed a grain o' doubt,
Nor I aint one my sense to scatter
So 's no one could n't pick it out;
My love fer North an' South is equil,
So I'll jest answer plump an' frank,
No matter wut may be the sequil,—
Yes, Sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions,
I'm an off ox at bein' druv,
Though I aint one thet ary test shuns
'll give our folks a helpin' shove ;
Kind o' promiscoous I go it

Fer the holl country, an' the ground

I take, ez nigh ez I can show it,
Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;

You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges

To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle

Thet preudent farmers don't turn out,→→→
Ez long 'z the people git their rattle,
Wut is there fer 'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion
In my idees consarnin' them,

I think they air an Institution,
A sort of-yes, jest so,-ahem:
Do I own any? Of my merit

On thet pint you yourself may jedge;
All is, I never drink no sperit,

Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I glory

In hevin' nothin' o' the sort;

I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,

I'm jest a candidate, in short;
Thet 's fair an' square an' parpendioler
But, of the Public cares a fig
To hev me an' thin' in particler,
Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', .

O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer, An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in your privit ear; Ef you git me inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kin' o' 'nint By gittin' you inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint.

An' ez the North has took to brustlin'
At bein' scrouged frum off the roost,
I'll tell ye wut 'll save all tusslin'

An' give our side a harnsome boost,—
Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question
I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth;

This gives you a safe pint to rest on,
An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.-T. MOORE.

'MONG our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time, When nobility flourished, great barons and dukes

Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,

But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor wretches were found to do this for their betters;
And one day a bishop, addressing a blue,
Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters ?"
To which the blue answered, "No, bishop: have you ?”

The same is now done by our privileged class;

And, to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great major general wishes to pass

For an author of history, thus he proceeds:

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neckcloth-takes snuff-rings the bell,
And yawningly orders a subaltern in.

The subaltern comes-sees his general seated,

In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;"There, look," saith his lordship, "my work is completed; It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a breach, the brave subaltern dreads

Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; And, though often condemned to the breaking of heads, He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job 's sure to pay-that's enough—
So to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced that there never was job half so tough
As the mending a great major-general's grammar.

But, lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view—
New toil for the sub.-for the lord, new expense;

'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do, As the subaltern also must find him in sense!

At last, even this is achieved by his aid;

Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and-the story; Drums beat the new grand march of intellect 's playedAnd off struts my lord, the historian, in glory!

ADDRESS TO MY TEA-KETTLE-HORACE SMITH

LEAVING Some operatic zany
To celebrate the singers many,
From Billington to Catalini,
Thy voice I still prefer to any,-

MY KETTLE!

Some learned singers, when they try
To spout, become embarrassed, dry,
And want thy copious fluency,-

MY KETTLE!

They, when their inward feelings boil,
Scold, storm, vociferate, turmoil,

And make a most discordant coil,

MY KETTLE!

You, when you're chafed, but sing the more;

And, when just ready to boil o'er,

In silent steam your passions soar,—
MY KETTLE!

To hear their strains, one needs must bear

Late hours, noise, lassitude, hot air,

And dissipation's dangers share,—

MY KETTLE!

But thine, my mighty Philomel,-
Thine is a voice whose magic spell,
Like Prospero's, can tempests quell,—
MY KETTLE!

TANKARD, BILLY, OLDBUTTON AND PRY.

Tan. Well, Billy, only rid me of this intolerable Paul, and your wages shall mend. Here has this Mr. Pry, although he has an establishment of his own in the town, been living and