en bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass--for now, to you
I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a _half_,
Without a '_quarter's_ notice.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW, BART.[33]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering
with his bill."--SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with
green."--BEWICK.

[Footnote 33: A Scotch baronet, and the once well-known promoter
of Sabbatarian legislation. Sir Andrew identified himself in the
House of Commons with the efforts of an English Association, the
"Lord's Day Society," and introduced a Bill to prohibit all open
labour on Sunday, excepting "works of necessity and mercy,"--a
measure bound, under any scheme of working, to inflict the direst
hardship and injustice. After three defeats, the Bill was actually
carried in 1837, but was afterwards allowed to drop.]

O Andrew Fairservice,--but I beg pardon,
You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden,
On curly kale and cabbages intent,--
Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant,--
You are a Christian--I would be the same,
Although we differ, and I'll tell you why,
Not meaning to make game,
I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will,
About your bill,
They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,
That, if you had your way,
You'd make the seventh day
As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.
Talk of converting Blacks--
By your attacks,
You make a thing so horrible of _one_ day,
Each nigger, they will bet a something tidy,
Would rather be a heathenish Man Friday,
Than your Man Sunday!

So poor men speak,
Who, once a week,
P'rhaps, after weaving artificial flowers,
Can snatch a glance of Nature's kinder bowers,
And revel in a bloom
That is not of the loom,
Mak