THE LAST STANZAS OF YANKEE DOODLE. YANKEE DOODLE sent to Town His goods for exhibition ; Everybody ran him down, And laughed at his position. They thought him all the world behind; A goney, muff, or noodle; Laugh on, good people-never mind— Says quiet Yankee Doodle. Yankee Doodle had a craft, And he challenged, while they laughed, Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped, O'er Panamà there was a scheme Short route-which many thought a dream- John Bull discussed the plan on foot, With slow irresolution, While Yankee Doodle went and put It into execution. A steamer of the Collins line, Across the Atlantic Ocean. Her merits to discover, Have been and bought her-just to tow The Cunard packets over. Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack, By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat With his machine for reaping wheat, PUNCH. You also fancied, in your pride, Which truly is tarnation, Them British locks of yourn defied The rogues of all creation; But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked, THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. You who hold in grace and honor, Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Should you ask me, By what story, PUNCH And for names- -there's Hiawatha, Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah- "Barred with streaks of red and yellow; And her story's far too touching Once upon a time in London, To the dreadful Northern Wizard, How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Out came sundry comic Indians With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shortened in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly. Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, If And the poem which I speak of? To inquire what links and unions Read, and learn, and then be thankful Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great Punch, who loves him. RHYME OF THE RAIL. SINGING through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,- Men of different "stations" SAXE. High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level Travelling together! Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large, Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien: Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green. Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news; Dreadfully in liquor! 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, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association!" Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, 'Mong so many sparks; |