_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,-- Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, And left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,-- In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,-- Above or below, or within or without,-- And that's the reason beyond a doubt, A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."-- "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,--where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same.

Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say.

There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub _encore_.

And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be _worn out!_

First of November, 'Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.

Now, small boys, get out of the way!

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next.

All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

--First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

--What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground!

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.

Logic is logic. That's all I say.

THE INJURED MOTHER.

From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.

CHARACTERS:

BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_, OTHMAN, _an officer_, ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_.

[This play has many pa.s.sages of splendid diction, well calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira, the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman, and of the queen with Barbarossa.

COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_, scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white, scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.

NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the best velvet on the stage.]

SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._

_Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R.

ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise To confidence in thee! But woes on woes O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son-- Both dead--both slaughter'd by the b.l.o.o.d.y hand Of Barbarossa! What infernal power Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of h.e.l.l, To stalk the earth with thy destructive train, Murder and l.u.s.t! To wake domestic peace, And every heart-felt joy!

_Enter_ OTHMAN, L.

O, faithful Othman!

Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!

OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!

ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder, Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!

OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will, Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate, That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield, And wait the happier hour, when innocence Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope, And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.

The king----

ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?

OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.

ZAP. Does he a.s.sume the name of king?

OTH. He does.

ZAP. O, t.i.tle vilely purchas'd!--by the blood Of innocence--by treachery and murder!

May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him, Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman, My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise No secret means, by which I may escape This hated palace?

OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate; Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.

Rouse not, then, his anger: Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke Would rob thee of for ever.

ZAP. An injur'd queen To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom!

E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!

O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!

For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord-- My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!

OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?