When I warn’t more’n dat tall;
I cut one of his shirt-frills off
To dress my corn-cob doll;
And when de General saw de shirt,
He jus’ was mad enough
To tink he got to hold review
Widout his best Dutch ruff.
Ma’am said she ‘lowed it was de calf
Dat had done chawed it off;
But when de General heard dat ar,
He answered with a scoff;
He said de marks warn’t don’ of teef,
But plainly dose ob shears;
An’ den he showed her to de do’
And cuffed me on ye years.
And when my ma’am arribed at home
She stretched me ‘cross her lap,
Den took de lace away from me
An’ sewed it on her cap.
And when I dies I hope dat dey
Wid it my shroud will trim.
Den when we meets on Judgment Day,
I’ll gib it back to him.
So dat’s my story, Massa Guy,
Maybe I’s little wit;
But I has larned to, when I’m wrong,
Make a clean breast ob it.
Den keep a conscience smooth and white
(You can’t if much you flirt),
And an unruffled bosom, like
De General’s Sunday shirt.
HAT, ULSTER AND ALL.
BY CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.
I saw the congregation rise,
And in it, to my great surprise,
A Kossuth-covered head.
I looked and looked, and looked again,
To make quite sure my sight was plain,
Then to myself I said:
That fellow surely is a Jew,
To whom the Christian faith is new,
Nor is it strange, indeed,
If used to wear his hat in church,
His manners leave him in the lurch
Upon a change of creed.
Joining my friend on going out,
Conjecture soon was put to rout
By smothered laugh of his:
Ha! ha! too good, too good, no Jew,
Dear fellow, but Miss Moll Carew,
Good Christian that she is!
Bad blunder all I have to say,
It is a most unchristian way
To rig Miss Moll Carew—
She has my hat, my cut of hair,
