yly for an argument on the way.

And one new-fashioned old lady
Felt called upon to suggest
That the angel might take Uncle Sammy,
And give him a good night's rest,
And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best.

TOM WAS GOIN' FOR A POET.

The Farmer Discourses of his Son.

Tom was goin' for a poet, an' said he'd a poet be;
One of these long-haired fellers a feller hates to see;
One of these chaps forever fixin' things cute and clever;
Makin' the world in gen'ral step 'long to tune an' time,
An' cuttin' the earth into slices an' saltin' it down into rhyme.

Poets are good for somethin', so long as they stand at the head:
But poetry's worth whatever it fetches in butter an' bread.
An' many a time I've said it: it don't do a fellow credit,
To starve with a hole in his elbow, an' be considered a fool,
So after he's dead, the young ones 'll speak his pieces in school.

An' Tom, he had an opinion that Shakspeare an' all the rest,
With all their winter clothin', couldn't make him a decent vest;
But that didn't ease my labors, or help him among the neighbors,
Who watched him from a distance, an' held his mind in doubt,
An' wondered if Tom wasn't shaky, or knew what he was about.

Tom he went a-sowin', to sow a field of grain;
But half of that 'ere sowin' was altogether in vain.
For he was al'ays a-stoppin', and gems of poetry droppin';
And metaphors, they be pleasant, but much too thin to eat;
And germs of thought be handy, but never grow up to wheat.

Tom he went a-mowin', one broilin' summer's day,
An' spoke quite sweet concernin' the smell of the new-mowed hay.
But all o' his useless chatter didn't go to help the matter,
Or make the grief less searchin' or the pain less hard to feel,
When he made a clip too suddent, an' sliced his brother's heel.

Tom he went a-drivin' the hills an' dales across;
But, scannin' the lines of his poetry, he dropped the lines of his hoss.
The nag ran fleet and fleeter, in quite irregular metre;
An' when we got Tom's leg set, an' had fixed him so he could speak,
He muttered that that adventur' would keep him a-writin' a week.

Tom he went a-ploughin', and couldn't have done it worse;
He sat down on the handles, an' went to spinnin' verse.
He wrote it nice and pretty--an agricultural ditty;
But all o' his pesky measures didn't measure an acre more,
Nor his p'ints didn't turn a furrow that wasn't turned before.

Tom he went a-courtin';--she liked him, I su