In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman
blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth
declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the plant-
er's rum,
Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering
Gael grew dumb;
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor
more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are
heir,
He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us
beware!
We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his
manhood fell,
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and
bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the
breezy air.
Throw the sofa-cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we
pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near
and handy,
Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with
brandy,
So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless
thirst of his,—
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as
he is!
THE DEATH OF DUBAL
By W- H— A-TH, Esq.
["Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holbom, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"— Beggars' Opera.]
A living sea of eager human faces,
A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.