And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou hear not the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,-
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis;

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled;

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face?

What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh,-Immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!

Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecayed within our presence!

Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,

If its undying guest be lost for ever?
O, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!

Horace Smith [1779-1849]

JOHN GRUMLIE

JOHN GRUMLIE swore by the light o' the moon

And the green leaves on the tree,

That he could do more work in a day

Than his wife could do in three,

His wife rose up in the morning
Wi' cares and troubles enow-
John Grumlie bide at hame, John,
And I'll go haud the plow.

First ye maun dress your children fair,
And put them a' in their gear;
And ye maun turn the malt, John,

Or else ye'll spoil the beer;

And ye maun reel the tweel, John,
That I span yesterday;

And ye maun ca' in the hens, John,
Else they'll all lay away.

O he did dress his children fair,
And put them a' in their gear;

But he forgot to turn the malt,
And so he spoiled the beer:

And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel

That his wife span yesterday;

But he forgot to put up the hens,
And the hens all layed away.

The hawket crummie loot down nae milk;

He kirned, nor butter gat;

And a' gade wrang, and naught gade right;
He danced wi' rage, and grat;

Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe
Wi' mony a wave and shout-

She heard him as she heard him not,
And steered the stots about.

John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en,

A weary wife and sad,

And burst into a laughter loud,

And laughed as she'd been mad:

While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree,

If my wife should na win a penny a day

She's aye her will for me.

Allan Cunningham [1784-1842]

THE NEEDLE

THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling
In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling

Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill;
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.

If Love have a potent, a magical token,
A talisman, ever resistless and true—
A charm that is never evaded or broken,
A witchery certain the heart to subdue-
'Tis this and his armory never has furnished
So keen and unerring, or polished a dart;
Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished,
And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart:
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.

Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration
By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all;
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station,
Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball,
As gayly convened at a work-covered table,
Each cheerfully active and playing her part,
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable,
And plying the needle with exquisite art:
The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle,
The needle directed by beauty and art.

Samuel Woodworth (1785-1842]

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur)

I WAS in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,

I saw a little vulgar Boy,-I said, "What make you here?

The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy;"

Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frowned, that little vulgar Boy, he deemed I meant to scoff,

And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off."
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?-it's striking nine," I said,

“An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma will scold,O fie!

It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbbed with agony, --he cried like anything!
I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur,-
"Ah!

I have n't got no supper! and I have n't got no Ma!

"My father, he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone!
And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone;
I have not had, this livelong day, one drop to cheer my heart,
Nor 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mister Levi did from off the Monument!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man,-cheer up!" I kindly said,

"You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head; If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,

Perhaps your neck,-then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me

and sup!

My landlady is Mrs. Jones,- -we must not keep her up,-There's roast potatoes at the fire,-enough for me and you,-Come home, you little vulgar Boy,-I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy."
I bad him wipe his dirty shoes,-that little vulgar Boy,-
And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex,
"Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubbed the
delf,

Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho,-I went to Mr. Cobb,

I changed a shilling (which in town the people call a Bob)—
It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child,-
And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it
mild!"

When I came back I gazed about,-I gazed on stool and chair,

I could not see my little friend,-because he was not there!
I peeped beneath the table-cloth, beneath the sofa, too,—
I said, "You little vulgar Boy! why, what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons.--I looked, but could not see
The little fiddle-patterned ones I use when I'm at tea;
I could not see my sugar-tongs, my silver watch,-oh, dear!
I know 'twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my mackintosh,—it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimmed and lined with green;

My carpet-bag, my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,

Mv roast potatoes!--all are gone!-and so's that vulgar Boy!