What a swate little wife,
As a partner for life,
My darlint, 'tis you might be living;
And I'm just the boy,
To wish you much joy,
When your heart it's to me you'll be giving.
I'm half dead—botheration!
With sad consternation—
Of your flirting it is that I'm speaking;
So plaze to be thinking,
When you're winking and blinking.
It's my own honest heart that you're braking.
The divil a haper,
Will I stand of a caper,—
'Twould kill me to find you deceiving;
By my sowl and I'd die,
And that same is no lie,
Before I'd be kilt by me grieving.
Then spake but the word.
My nate little bird,
That you're niver a man's but mine;
And straight to the praist,
It's myself that'll haste,
To make you my swate waluntine!
[Teddy Magowan.
Boys and Men.
A youthful volunteer, the other day, out in Arkansas, was taunting a married gentleman, who had a wife and three small children depending upon him, for not rallying to the standard of his country, soon after the requisition upon that State arrived. 'Tom,' said our friend, 'you boys can whip the Mexicans, but should old England take a hand in the pie, I'll join, for it will require men to whip the English.'
Trusting too Long.
We recollect that a weekly paper was started, some years ago, in one of the Western States, the terms of which were $2,50 in advance, $3 at the end of the year—to which the editor jocosely added in a paragraph, 'and $5 if never paid.' We think that most of his subscribers took the paper upon the latter terms, since it has been non est. He played a joke upon himself.