Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets
So sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom;

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said

Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old, three-cornered hat,
And the breeches,—and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree,
In the spring—

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE MUSIC GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take

One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;

But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about

A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,

But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,—
Some filthy creature begs;
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,

And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor, little, lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,—
And so you kindly help to put

A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a crack'd bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice,
And something like a drum ;

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor" Home, sweet home" should seem to be

A very dismal place;

Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once,

Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.

But, hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,-it is,—it is,—
A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear,

That stunn'd you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;
Then close your sentence with an oath,

And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop

A button in the hat!

OLIVER Wendell Holmes.

ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine,—it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when the old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar-so runs the ancient tale;

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;