My old accustom'd corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took.

When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine?

Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-- I'll pledge them in the good old wine.

The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing TOM is laughing yet; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage; There's poor old FRED in the Gazette; On JAMES'S head the gra.s.s is growing; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place--but not alone.

A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me --There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely gla.s.s, and drain it In memory of dear old times.

Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.

--Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

THE MAHOGANY TREE.

Christmas is here: Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse, Singing like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free.

Life is but short-- When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be!

Drink, every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.-- Friend, art afraid?

Spirits are laid In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!

Life and its ills, Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn, Blue-devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree.

THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS.

"A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."--Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee Volunteers!

It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one.

So--in both hemispheres The women are untrue, And cruel in the New, As in the Old one!

What--in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn, Nine-tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Forlorn?

Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipp'd her wicked chains, Fled and out-ran her.

And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star Embroider'd banner!

And is it so with all The warriors ranged in line, With lace bedizen'd fine And swords gold-hilted-- Yon l.u.s.ty corporal, Yon color-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes-- Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, "The pioneers and all,"

The fifer nimble-- Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets, And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal--

O cymbal-beating black, Tell us, as thou canst feel, Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin?

O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing--

Confess, ye volunteers, Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Roman-- Confess, ye grenadiers, However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman!

No corselet is so proof But through it from her bow The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle.

No champion e'er so tough, But's in the struggle thrown, And tripp'd and trodden down By her slim ankle.

Thus always it was ruled: And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle.

Alcides was befool'd, And silly Samson shorn, Long, long ere you were horn, Poor Yankee Doodle!

THE PEN AND THE ALb.u.m.

"I am Miss Catherine's book," the alb.u.m speaks; "I've lain among your tomes these many weeks; I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.

"Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace: Come! draw me off a funny little face; And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place."

PEN.

"I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen; I've served him three long years, and drawn since then Thousands of funny women and droll men.

"O Alb.u.m! could I tell you all his ways And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!"

ALb.u.m.