ature saw she'd made a perfect man
She broke the mould and threw away the pieces,
Which being found by Satan, he began
And stuck the bits together--hence the creases,
The twists, the crooked botches, that we find--
Sad counterfeits of Nature's perfect moulding;
Hearts wrongly placed--a topsy-turvy mind--
Things that deserve the scorn of all beholding.
It needs no oracle in Delphic shade
To name the model from which _thou_ wert made.

IMPROMPTU:

ON AN INVETERATE SPOUTER.

If wealth of words men wealth of wisdom call'd,
And measured Genius by the way she bawled,
Then ---- would be the head of all the crew,
The King of Genius and of Wisdom too.

A CHARACTER.

In childhood spoilt: a misery at school;
In wooing, what you might expect--a fool.
In small things honest, and in great a knave;
At home a tyrant, and abroad a slave.

COUPLET:

ON A PAUPER WHOSE WEALTH GREW FASTER THAN HIS MANNERS.

Paupers grown rich forget what once they've been,
Though, born a pig the snout is always seen.

PAUSE!

ON THE HESITATION OF THE CZAR TO FORCE A PASSAGE
OF THE DANUBE, JUNE, 1877.

Aye--hesitate! "Soldiers who stop to think
Are lost." So said a soldier (_a_) ere he died:
Lost, then, art thou--thus shivering on the brink.
Death was thy father's cure for humbled pride!

(_a_) Wellington.

THE TEST OF THE STICK.

Mick Malone on the tramp, weary, dusty, and warm,
Thought a pint of good ale wouldn't do him much harm;
But before he indulged--just for Conscience's sake--
He thought he'd the views of Authority take.
So poising his stick on the ground--so they say,
He resolved on the beer if it fell the beer way;
If it went the contrary direction--why then
He'd his coppers retain, and trudge onward again.
The shillalegh, not thirsty, went wrong way for Mick,
Who again and again tried the Test of the Stick,
Till, worn out with refusing, the sprig tumbled right:
"Bring a pint!" sang out Pat, which he drank with delight;
And smacking his lips as he finished his beer,
Cried--"Success, Mick, me boy! always persevere!"

NOTE:

CONCERNING IUAN WYLLT, AN EISTEDDFOD AT NEATH, AND MY FIRST PRIZE POEM.

I think I ought to mention here, that the "Ode on the Death of a very
Intimate Friend" (page 199), was written in 1853, before I came to
reside in Wales. About three or four years after this--I fo