Now closer draws the stranger sail—­
      Are sirens they who hang
    About the quivering cordage with—­
      Hallo! what’s that?—­bang! bang! 
    The trap is sprung, the siren ship
      Runs up the sable flag—­
    It is the pirate “Harpy,” and
      She takes the “Author’s” swag!

[Footnote 1:  A famous foreign writer offered us L500 to print this Pearl Street, but we wouldn’t do it for double the money.—­[ED.]]

* * * * *

WEAPONS THAT TAMMANY HALL CAN NEVER BE TAKEN BY.—­SHARPE’S Rifles.

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN AT THE BROOKLYN NAVY-YARD.

Bread and Butter vs.  Old Cheese.

I hadent got but a little ways into the Navy-Yard, when a soljer steps up before me, and pintin his bagonet at my throack, said: 

“Pass.”

I stepped tother side of him to obey his orders, when he agin pinted his gun at me and said: 

“Pass.”

Thinkin I was on the rong side of him, I undertook to pass into the middle of the road, when he vociferated in louder tones: 

“Pass!”

“Well,” says I, by this time considerably riled at sich skanderlous treatment at the hands of this goverment, “if you’l stop rammin your bagonet into my hash digester and let me pass, ile be hily tickled.”

I was madder than if I had been a candidate for offis, and dident get elected.

“See here, Mister hard-tack Cowpenner,” said I, addressin him, “how dare you stop me in this ere outragous manner?  You say ‘pass,’ and when I try to pass, you jab at my innards with that mustick in a rather oncomfortable manner.  What do you mean?”

“I mean, sir,” said he, sholderin his shootin iron, “that if you want to go further, you must get a pass from the offis across the way.”

“Oho! that’s a gooseberry pie of a different flavor,” said I, coolin off; “why dident you say so before?” and I pinted for the offis to get the pass.

After bein put through a course of red tape, such as feelin of my pultz, lookin down my throte, and soundin me on my Spread Eagleism, I got the pass.

While on my tower of observashuns, a mechanikle lookin individual approched me, and says: 

“Good mornin, Congressman WEBSTER.”

I turned in cirprise, as several other men dropped their tools and rushed out and surrounded me.

“God bless you, Mister WEBSTER!” said one.

“Make way for the noble and good WEBSTER,” said another.

“Let me kiss the hand of the great statesman,” says a third, fallin to and gettin my thumb in his mouth.

“Mister WEBSTER, take care of me, I am yours to command,” says a 4th, who jumped wildly for an old tobacker cud I had just throde away.

On all sides, men was fallin down to worship me, just as if I was the Golden Calf, spoken of in scripters, or else some great poletikle Mogul, with a pocket full of blank commissions, ready to be filled out for good fat offises.