Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world
Which cannot pause to answer—tired, alike,
Of joy and sorrow—of the day and night!
Ah! take them FIRST, my Father! and then me;
And for their sakes—for their sweet sakes, my Father!
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.
A PUNCH AT “PUNCH.”
“What is the height of a woman’s ambition? Diamonds.”—Punch.
Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more “diamonds” a woman owns, the more precious she becomes in the eyes of your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a “crow’s foot,” gray hair, or wrinkle, in company with a genuine diamond? Don’t you go down on your marrow bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look (connubially) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only diamonds were “in her eye?” Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch. The race of men is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a specimen; but I’m sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient energy to earn their own cigars and “Macassar,” preferring to dangle at the heels of a diamond wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as her mamma’s prudence and her own inclinations may suggest.