And he's never been known to change his pace, Or swerve an inch from his course, Though his journey so easily shortened might be, By cutting his...o...b..t across.

If I were you, you silly old World, I know well what I 'd do: Break loose from that tiresome orbit-track, And go spinning the Universe through.

I'd startle the stars from their morning nap, With a "How do you do to-day?"

And before any one could take off his night-cap, I'd be millions of miles away.

I'd warm my hands at the gate of the Sun, And cool them off at the Pole; Then off and away down the Milky Way, How merrily I would roll!

I'd steal from Saturn his golden rings, From Mars his mantle of red; And I'd borrow the sword of Orion the brave, To cut off the Serpent's head.

I'd saddle the Bear, and ride on his back, Nor dream of being afraid; And maybe I'd stop at the Archer's shop, To see how the rainbows are made.

I'd race with the comets, I'd flirt with the moon, I'd waltz with the Northern Lights, Till the whole Solar System should hold up its hands And exclaim, "What remarkable sights!"

But stay! to all these delightful things One slight objection I see; For if the World _should_ play these wonderful pranks.

Pray, what would become of me?

And what would become of papa and mamma?

And what would become of you?

And how should we like to go spinning about, And careering the Universe through?

Well, the merry old World goes round, goes round, And round the old World does go; And a great deal better than you or I, The wise old World must know!

EMILY JANE.

Oh! Christmas time is coming again, And what shall I buy for Emily Jane?

O Emily Jane, my love so true, Now what upon earth shall I buy for you?

My Emily Jane, my doll so dear, I've loved you now for many a year, And still while there's anything left of you, My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!

My Emily Jane has lost her head, And has a potato tied on instead; A hole for an eye, and a lump for a nose, It really looks better than you would suppose.

My Emily Jane has lost her arms, The half of one leg's the extent of her charms; But still, while there's anything left of you, My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!

And now, shall I bring you a fine new head, Or shall I bring you a leg instead?

Or will you have arms, to hug me tight, When naughty 'Lizabeth calls you a fright?

Or I'll buy you a dress of satin so fine, 'Mong all the dolls to shimmer and shine; For oh! while there's anything left of you, My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!

Mamma says, "Keep all your pennies, Sue, And I'll buy you a doll all whole and new;"

But better I love my dear old doll, With her one half-leg and potato poll.

"The potato may rot, and the leg may fall?"

Well, then I shall treasure the sawdust, that's all!

For while there is _anything_ left of you, My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!

SONG OF THE MOTHER WHOSE CHILDREN ARE FOND OF DRAWING.

Oh, could I find the forest Where the pencil-trees grow!

Oh, might I see their stately stems All standing in a row!

I'd hie me to their grateful shade; In deep, in deepest bliss; For then I need not hourly hear A chorus such as this:

_Chorus._ Oh, lend me a pencil, _please_, Mamma!

Oh, draw me some houses and trees, Mamma!

Oh, make me a floppy Great poppy to copy, And a horsey that prances and gees, Mamma!

The branches of the pencil-tree Are pointed every one; Ay! each one has a glancing point That glitters in the sun.

The leaves are leaves of paper white, All fluttering in the breeze; Ah! could I pluck one rustling bough, I'd silence cries like these:

_Chorus._ Oh, lend me a pencil, do, Mamma!

I've got mine all stuck in the glue, Mamma!

Oh, make me a pretty Big barn and a city, And a cow and a steam-engine too, Mamma!

The fruit upon the pencil-tree Hangs ripening in the sun, In cl.u.s.ters bright of pocket-knives,-- Three blades to every one.

Ah! might I pluck one shining fruit, And plant it by my door, The pleading cries, the longing sighs, Would trouble me no more.

_Chorus._ Oh, sharpen a pencil for me, Mamma!

'Cause Johnny and Baby have three, Mamma!

And this isn't fine!

And Hal sat down on mine!

So do it bee-yu-ti-ful-_lee_, Mamma!

THE SEVEN LITTLE TIGERS AND THE AGED COOK.

Seven little tigers they sat them in a row, Their seven little dinners for to eat; And each of the troop had a little plate of soup, The effect of which was singularly neat.

They were feeling rather cross, for they hadn't any sauce To eat with their pudding or their pie; So they rumpled up their hair, in a spasm of despair, And vowed that the aged cook should die.

Then they called the aged cook, and a frying-pan they took, To fry him very nicely for their supper; He was ninety-six years old, on authority I'm told, And his name was Peter Sparrow-piper Tupper.

"Mr. Sparrow-piper Tup, we intend on you to sup!"

Said the eldest little tiger very sweetly; But this naughty aged cook, just remarking, "Only look!"

Chopped the little tiger's head off very neatly.

Then he said unto the rest, "It has always been confessed That a tiger's better eating than a man; So I'll fry him for you now, and you all will find, I trow, That to eat him will be much the better plan."

So they tried it in a trice, and found that it was nice, And with rapture they embraced one another; And they said, "By hook or crook, we must keep this aged cook; So we'll ask him to become our elder brother."

[_Which they accordingly did._]