They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons
  And wonder what I am—­alas! there are no German ’coons! 
  For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree,
  A symbol of democracy that’s woolly, blythe and free. 
  And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,
  For I have tasted liberty—­these others, they have not! 
  So, even caged, the democratic ’coon more glory feels
  Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!

  Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O’Neill,
  To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell ’em how I feel;
  My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest,
  Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest;
  Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all
  To Joe McCullagh’s badinage or Chauncy Filley’s gall;
  And urge them to retaliate for what I’m suffering here
  By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.

THE BIBLIOMANIAC’S BRIDE.

  The women folk are like to books—­
    Most pleasing to the eye,
  Whereon if anybody looks
    He feels disposed to buy.

  I hear that many are for sale—­
    Those that record no dates,
  And such editions as regale
    The view with colored plates.

  Of every quality and grade
    And size they may be found—­
  Quite often beautifully made,
    As often poorly bound.

  Now, as for me, had I my choice,
    I’d choose no folio tall,
  But some octavo to rejoice
    My sight and heart withal.

  As plump and pudgy as a snipe—­
  Well worth her weight in gold,
  Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
    And just the size to hold!

  With such a volume for my wife,
    How should I keep and con? 
  How like a dream should speed my life
    Unto its colophon!

  Her frontispiece should be more fair
    Than any colored plate;
  Blooming with health she would not care
    To extra-illustrate.

  And in her pages there should be
    A wealth of prose and verse,
  With now and then a jeu d’esprit—­
    But nothing ever worse!

  Prose for me when I wished for prose,
    Verse, when to verse inclined—­
  Forever bringing sweet repose
    To body, heart, and mind.

  Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
    In bindings full and fine,
  And keep her where no human eyes
    Should see her charms, but mine!

  With such a fair unique as this,
    What happiness abounds! 
  Who—­who could paint my rapturous bliss,
    My joy unknown to Lowndes!

EZRA J. M’MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.