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If that cannibal president calls upon me!

      There is nothing on earth that he will not devour,

       From a tutor in seed to a freshman in flower;

       No sage is too gray, and no youth is too green,

       And you can't be too plump, though you're never too lean.

      While others enlarge on the boiled and the roast,

       He serves a raw clergyman up with a toast,

       Or catches some doctor, quite tender and young,

       And basely insists on a bit of his tongue.

      Poor victim, prepared for his classical spit,

       With a stuffing of praise and a basting of wit,

       You may twitch at your collar and wrinkle your brow,

       But you're up on your legs, and you're in for it now.

      Oh think of your friends—they are waiting to hear

       Those jokes that are thought so remarkably queer;

       And all the Jack Horners of metrical buns

       Are prying and fingering to pick out the puns.

      Those thoughts which, like chickens, will always thrive best

       When reared by the heat of the natural nest,

       Will perish if hatched from their embryo dream

       In the mist and the glow of convivial steam.

      Oh pardon me, then, if I meekly retire,

       With a very small flash of ethereal fire;

       No rubbing will kindle your Lucifer match,

       If the fiz does not follow the primitive scratch.

      Dear friends, who are listening so sweetly the while,

       With your lips double—reefed in a snug little smile,

       I leave you two fables, both drawn from the deep—

       The shells you can drop, but the pearls you may keep.

      … … . … .

      The fish called the FLOUNDER, perhaps you may know,

       Has one side for use and another for show;

       One side for the public, a delicate brown,

       And one that is white, which he always keeps down.

      A very young flounder, the flattest of flats,

       (And they 're none of them thicker than opera hats,)

       Was speaking more freely than charity taught

       Of a friend and relation that just had been caught.

      "My! what an exposure! just see what a sight!

       I blush for my race—he is showing his white

       Such spinning and wriggling—why, what does he wish?

       How painfully small to respectable fish!"

      Then said an Old SCULPIN—"My freedom excuse,

       You're playing the cobbler with holes in your shoes;

       Your brown side is up—but just wait till you're tried

       And you'll find that all flounders are white on one side."

      … … . …

      There's a slice near the PICKEREL'S pectoral fins,

       Where the thorax leaves off and the venter begins,

       Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines,

       Though fond of his family, never declines.

      He loves his relations; he feels they'll be missed;

       But that one little tidbit he cannot resist;

       So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how fast,

       For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last.

      And thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate

       Is to take the next hook with the president's bait,

       You are lost while you snatch from the end of his line

       The morsel he rent from this bosom of mine!

A MODEST REQUEST

       Table of Contents

      COMPLIED WITH AFTER THE DINNER AT PRESIDENT EVERETT'S INAUGURATION

      SCENE—a back parlor in a certain square, Or court, or lane—in short, no matter where; Time—early morning, dear to simple souls Who love its sunshine and its fresh-baked rolls; Persons—take pity on this telltale blush, That, like the AEthiop, whispers, "Hush, oh hush!"

      Delightful scene! where smiling comfort broods,

       Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes;

       O si sic omnia I were it ever so! But what is stable in this world below? Medio e fonte—Virtue has her faults— The clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts; We snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry— Its central dimple holds a drowning fly Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial streams, But stronger augers pierce its thickest beams; No iron gate, no spiked and panelled door, Can keep out death, the postman, or the bore. Oh for a world where peace and silence reign, And blunted dulness verebrates in vain! —The door-bell jingles—enter Richard Fox, And takes this letter from his leathern box.

      "Dear Sir—

       In writing on a former day,

       One little matter I forgot to say;

       I now inform you in a single line,

       On Thursday next our purpose is to dine.

       The act of feeding, as you understand,

       Is but a fraction of the work in hand;

       Its nobler half is that ethereal meat

       The papers call 'the intellectual treat;'

       Songs, speeches, toasts, around the festive board

       Drowned in the juice the College pumps afford;

       For only water flanks our knives and forks,

       So, sink or float, we swim without the corks.

       Yours is the art, by native genius taught,

       To clothe in eloquence the naked thought;

       Yours is the skill its music to prolong

       Through the sweet effluence of mellifluous song;

       Yours the quaint trick to cram the pithy line

       That cracks so crisply over bubbling wine;

       And since success your various gifts attends,

       We—that is, I and all your numerous friends—

       Expect from you—your single self a host—

       A speech, a song, excuse me, and a toast;

       Nay, not to haggle on so small a claim,

       A few of each, or several of the same.

       (Signed), Yours, most truly, ________"

      No! my sight must fail—

       If that ain't Judas on the largest scale!

       Well, this is modest;—nothing else than that?

       My coat? my boots? my pantaloons? my hat?

       My stick? my gloves? as well as all my wits,

       Learning and linen—everything that fits!

      Jack, said my lady, is it grog you'll try,

      

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