platado--all silvered up, in tip-top style--c'est de
l'argent fin messieurs--s'ist alles von gutem Silber, Gott
verdammich wenn's nicht echt is. Cinquante piastres, fuenfzig,
fuenfzig, fifty do I hear, and a half an' a half an' a half e un
demi piastre un d'mi un d'mi ein halb' und ein halb' und ein halb'
un medio y tin medio--wer sagt six shillins, six escalins, six
escalins, seis reales, sechs schillin!? For this beautiful gun,
good for Injuns, deer, bar, buffalo, or to kill one another
with--madre Dios! bueno por matar los Americanos--first-rate to
kill a Greaser--womit Sie alles was nicht Deutsch ist zu todten.
Fifty-one dollars, thanky sir--cinquante deux--Merci, Monsieur! Wer
sagt drei und fuenfzig--ich glaube dass ein Deutscher bekommt's noch
am Ende. Go it, Yankee, Dutch is a-gainin' on ye! and a half an' a
half e trois quar' r' r' an' three quarters und drei Viertel y tres
quartos--quelqu'un a dit fifty-three--fifty-_four_--going, going,
gone, sir--at fifty-four--America ahead and Frenchy second-best.'

It would take some time, we should think, to be able to reel it off in
such a quadruple thread.

* * * * *

Two 'after-Norse' poems are ours this month-the first from an esteemed
Philadelphia correspondent--the second from another of the same State,
but more inland. The following, we may observe, is written in the
measure which most prevails in Icelandic poems:

THE VIKINGS.

Through the brown waters
Dash the swift prows;
At the helm Valor stands,
Death at the bows:
Vainly the foeman shrinks,
Palsied in fright,
Vain are his struggles, yet
Vainer his flight.

Triple defenses--
Fire, water, and steel,
Guard the gate of the West
From the Northerner's keel.
Though defiant at midnight,
Ere morning the wrath
Of the terrible sea-kings
Has leveled a path.

Rampart and heavy gun
From o'er the bay,
Whose broad waters stretch
'Twixt the ships and their prey:
But shattered the rampart lies,
Silent the gun,
As the circle of living fire
Madly rolls on.

Wide yawn the timbers,
Wild waters rush in,
As the ship settles fast
Mid the fierce battle-din:
Yet her guns hurl defiance,
As, stern to the last,
The sea sucks her in
With her flag on the mast.

Sons of the Northman,
Whose banner of old
S