“Well, then, tom-tits! dear Uncle Timothy,—shall go to roost for the night.”
MR. BOSKY'S L'ENVOY,=
From childhood he rear'd me, how fondly my heart
Forgets not, nor lets not my tongue silent be;
But whispers, while sweet tears of gratitude start,
A blessing and pray'r for his kindness to me!
I'll breathe not his name, though its record is deep
In my warm beating bosom, for fear he should frown,
Go read it where angels their register keep
Of the gifted and good, for 'tis there written down.