A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.
HEN I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summon’d hence—
There’s cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door—
There’s some one double-knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms—
They’re come to lunch of course.
And when my body’s turn’d to clay
And dear friends hear my knell,
O let them give a sigh and say—
I hear the up-stairs bell.
A BULL.
NE day, no matter where or when,
Except ’twas after some Hibernian revel,
For why? an Irishman is ready then
“To play the Devil”—
A Pat, whose surname has escaped the Bards,
Agreed to play with Nick a game at cards.
The stake, the same that the old Source of Sin
From German Faustus and his German Cousins
Had won by dozens;
The only one in fact he cares a pin
To win.