RAILROAD RHYME. SINGING through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Men of different "stations" Gentleman in shorts, Talking very small; Stranger on the right Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the KnickerBocker Magazine! Stranger on the left Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From Association." "If Famine should follow you, He would find the harvest in; You think yourself and your mulberries Too good for a mandarin. I have yellow gold in my sleeve." But she answered, sharp and bold, "Be off! Let me pick my mulberries, Good boys and girls, the best was Bess, I bore her on my shoulder; A little bud of loveliness That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way, They seemed to say, "Don't strike me. Then, growing bold another day, "I mean to make you like me. I liked my cousin, early, late, Who liked not little misses: She used to meet me at the gate, Just old enough for kisses! This was, I think, three years ago, I learned but one thing-how to row, A healthy sort of knowledge. I am bought with no man's gold. "When I was plucked, (we won the She scratched his face with her nails, TOO OLD FOR KISSES. My uncle Philip, hale old man, Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate and Ann How many call me "Cousin ?" race,) And all was at an end there, I thought of Uncle Philip's place, She looked five, ten years older, "Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me." She replied, "I am too old for kisses." I loved I loved my Cousin Bess, The rose of womankind now! By many a mad adorer. Will be my happy duty. And be my bliss of blisses, She knits, and sings with many a sigh, And, as her needles glide, "He promised he would meet me here, Upon this very spot: O stay not long, but come, my dear, And knit our marriage knot!" My lady will not sing the song; Why not?" I say. And she, Tossing her head, "It is too long." And I, "Too short, may be.' She has her little wilful ways, But I persist, and then, It is not maidenly," she says, "For maids to sigh for men. But men must sigh for maids, I fear, I know it is my lot, Until you whisper, Come, my dear, And knit our marriage knot!" " Yet, should some neighbor feel a Just in the parts where I complain, Inquire what regimen I kept? Behold the fatal day arrive! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. | And Cordelier or Benedictine A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable caseThe which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at Terré's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace; And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray ?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder; "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner. "Say, do you still cook Bouilla- |