In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there,
That I take a delight, on a Saturday night,
In walking that way and viewing the sight;
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please—
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore which discretion enjoys—
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare!
The rich man comes down from the elegant town,
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed—
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the neighboring slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and pies
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end—
And it's oh if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas! he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze—
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday nights, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my tattered waif friend shall have pennies to spend,
As long as I've got 'em (or friends that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in that marketplace there!

UNCLE EPHRAIM.

My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain,
And yet, why he succeeded so I never could explain;
By nature he was not endowed with wit to a degree,
But folks allowed there nowhere lived a better man than he;
He started poor but soon got rich; he went to congress then,
And held that post of honor long against much brainier men;
He never made a famous speech or did a thing of note,
And yet the praise of Uncle Eph welled up from every throat.
I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word;
He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard;
He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew,
He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "how-dy'-do";
He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said: "That child will grow
To be a Daniel Webster or our president, I know!"
His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth,
That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth!
Now, father was a smarter man, and yet he never won
Such wealth and fame as Uncle Eph, "the deestrick's favorite son";
He had "convictions" and he was not loath to speak his mind—
He went his way and said his say as he might be inclined;
Yes, he was brainy; yet his life was hardly a success—
He was too honest and too smart for this vain world, I guess!
At any rate, I wondered he was unsuccessful when
My Uncle Eph, a duller man, was so revered of men!
When Uncle Eph was dying he called me to his bed,
And in a tone of confidence inviolate he said:
"Dear Willyum, ere I seek repose in yonder blissful sphere
I fain would breathe a secret in your adolescent ear;
Strive not to hew your way through life—it really doesn't pay;
Be sure the salve of flattery soaps all you do and say!
Herein the only royal road to fame and fortune lies;
Put not your trust in vinegar—molasses catches flies!"

THIRTY-NINE.

O hapless day! O wretched day!
I hoped you'd pass me by—
Alas, the years have sneaked away
And all is changed but I!
Had I the power, I would remand
You to a gloom condign,
But here you've crept upon me and
I—I am thirty-nine!
Now, were I thirty-five, I could
Assume a flippant guise,
Or, were I forty years, I should
Undoubtedly look wise;
For forty years are said to bring
Sedateness superfine,
But thirty-nine don't mean a thing—
A bas with thirty-nine!
You healthy, hulking girls and boys—
What makes you grow so fast?
Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise—
I'm tough and bound to last!
No, no—I'm old and withered, too—
I feel my powers decline.
(Yet none believes this can be true
Of one at thirty-nine.)
And you, dear girl with velvet eyes,
I wonder what you mean
Through all our keen anxieties
By keeping sweet sixteen.
With your dear love to warm my heart,
Wretch were I to repine—
I was but jesting at the start—
I'm glad I'm thirty-nine!
So, little children, roar and race
As blithely as you can
And, sweetheart, let your tender grace
Exalt the Day and Man;
For then these factors (I'll engage)
All subtly shall combine
To make both juvenile and sage
The one who's thirty-nine!
Yes, after all, I'm free to say
That I rejoice to be
Standing as I do stand to-day
'Twixt devil and deep sea;
For, though my face be dark with care
Or with a grimace shine,
Each haply falls unto my share;
Since I am thirty-nine!
'Tis passing meet to make good cheer
And lord it like a king,
Since only once we catch the year
That doesn't mean a thing.
O happy day! O gracious day!
I pledge thee in this wine—
Come let us journey on our way
A year, good Thirty-Nine!