Nought can deform the human race,
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plough,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.

A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch, and eagle's mile,
Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees,
Will ne'er believe, do what you please;

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.

To be in a passion you good may do,

But no good if a passion is in you.

*

The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born;

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight;
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie,

When we see not through the eye,

Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,

To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

LONG JOHN BROWN AND LITTLE

L

MARY BELL.

ITTLE Mary Bell had a fairy in a nut,

Long John Brown had the devil in his gut;

Long John Brown loved little Mary Bell,
And the fairy drew the devil into the nutshell.

Her fairy skipp'd out, and her fairy skipp'd in,
He laugh'd at the devil, saying, "Love is a sin."
The devil he raged, and the devil he was wroth,
And the devil enter'd into the
young man's broth.

He was soon in the gut of the loving young swain, For John eat and drank to drive away love's pain; But all he could do he grew thinner and thinner, Though he eat and drank as much as ten men for his dinner.

Some said he had a wolf in his stomach day and night, Some said he had the devil, and they guess'd right; The fairy skipp'd about in his glory, joy, and pride, And he laugh'd at the devil till poor John Brown died.

Then the fairy skipp'd out of the old nutshell,
And woe and alack! for pretty Mary Bell;
For the devil crept in when the fairy skipp'd out,
And there goes Miss Bell with her fusty old nut.

I

WILLIAM BOND.

WONDER whether the girls are mad,

And I wonder whether they mean to kill,

And I wonder if William Bond will die,
For assuredly he is very ill.

He went to church in a May morning,
Attended by fairies one, two, and three;
But the angels of Providence drove them away,
And he return'd home in misery.

He went not out to the field nor fold,
He went not out to the village nor town,
But he came home in a black black cloud,
And took to his bed, and there lay down.

And an angel of Providence at his feet,
And an angel of Providence at his head,
And in the midst a black black cloud,

And in the midst the sick man on his bed.