'Twas Peter Twink, aunt Thompson's son, set out for Mont serrat, But first he drank a quart of gin, though none the more for that; Now Peter had a barrow got, and by his aunt's desire, And now, quoth Peter, here I am, let him who wants, begin- 'Twas cut in two, and four long teeth came sticking out between ; O'ertopping this, her yellow hair hung tangling down her neck, And children asked, as well they might, what carrots were a peck! Across her broad capacious back, a tattered shawl was thrown, On which three tom-cats long had slept, and mark'd it as their own. And then her eye--with two such eyes the world had been undone, So old dame Nature wisely chose the jade should have but one. Now Peter had a thumping dram, prepared with matchless skill, For fifty years are past and gone since I my course begun, one. If you're in earnest then, we will, the trembling Peter cried, As with a laugh-provoking phiz, he turned his head aside, And arm in arm they started off their recent match to close, But where they went, or how they fare, the d--l only knows. XXVII. THE SHAM ACTION. [New-Hampshire Sentinel. Keene.] If noise and smoke such name may have, My Sunday-clothes I hurried on, And hied me to the "tented field," To see troops conquer, run, or yield: There muskets glistened, bright and clean, Great folks were there, with epaulette In front of where the army stood- The charming creatures looked so good- There's nought looks prettier than they! Along contending van and rear ;- Alluding to a recent series of sham duels between two honourable gentlemen of the south. En. Beware for hearts and heads are broke Now hear the colonel's loud command- Reload, then wheel--march up and stand, The sham-made savage bounds in sight, Exulting, joins the blood-less fight! Shrill bugles scream--sharp sabres clash, If either conquer, either yield, Is known to only those that beat! Such smoke, and sweat and chivalry! XXVIII. THE GATHERING.* IN IMITATION OF BURNS. [Observer. Salem.] THE light just streaked the eastling blue *To enable the reader to understand fully this Jeu d'esprit, it may be remarked that, on the morning of a late review at "Tapley's Brook," in Danvers, while a Salem regiment was forming, another from Beverly marched by, ready formed, and that the former, to be first on the ground, found it necessary to march, quick time, a little sooner than was otherwise intended, ED. Of skelpin chiefs, wha tried to show While they gaed to the grand review Now ilka lad, in cap and feather, Wi' nerves weel braced wi' straps o' leather, A' joyed to find sic pleasant weather, At bugle call, the troops convene- Mars cannot find more friends, I ween, The auld and young, of ilka callin', O' bletherin' louns, Fu' twenty drummers 'gan their rawlin', Wi' bugles playing, banners fleeing, Fu' brave each sodier lad was speeing His neebor's nose, by which agreeing The line was strait. Twad make ane fierce, by only seeing Anither clan, sa fate had sealed, Between them twa. Ah! muckle skin, I wat, was peeled Gin ye had seen them scower the street, The chiefs kent na', by this strange feat, Determined each, by hook or crook, Their sprattling leap. -Fu' weel I ken they a' did look Like frightened sheep, Tis lang syne crowds, like these, were seen. Baith young and auld, wi' glowerin' een, And chiels and hizzies, too, I ween, Did rin in haste. Ane wife wi' squattling chittering wean, Unlike some troops, the bard has seen, Yet in the ranks were some, I ween, Less carefu' chiels. Ye wha ha' been at Waterloo, To fill wi' heaps of bones each sleugh, Which was na' brought again to view 'Mid clouds o' smeek the squadrons reeled, That nane were killed, as on the field 'Tis mirk! the guns have ceased their roaring, And ilka chief in bed is snoring, Whose pow, that day, was proudly soaring, The muse must stop—night's curtain's lowering Owre Tapley's Brook. |