But your soul doth quake,

At most fearful night-mares—

Turkey, oysters, cake.

While each leaden horror

That your rest appalls,

Cries, "Dear heart! how pleasant;

Making New Year's calls."

JACK AND ME.

Shine!—All right; here y'are, boss!

Do it for jest five cents.

Get 'em fixed in a minute,—

That is, 'f nothing perwents.

Set your foot right there, sir.

Mornin's kinder cold,—

Goes right through a feller,

When his coat's a gittin' old.

Well, yes,—call it a coat, sir,

Though 't aint much more 'n a tear.

Git another!—I can't, boss;

Ain't got the stamps to spare.

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