But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown,

And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;

Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop

A button in the hat!

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,

And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,

And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,

And stir your solid pegs!

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider legs;

What though you 're awkward at the trade,

There's time enough to learn,

So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They 've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;

We 've nothing in the world to do,
But just to walk about;

So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,

He shan't be lazy here,

And punch the little fellow's ribs,

And tweak that lubber's ear,

He's lost them both, — don't pull his hair,

Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the further eye,
That is n't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,

And so our work is done;

It's pretty sport,

suppose we take

A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,

When I have better grown,

Now hang me, but I mean to have

A treadmill of my own!

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen

Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember; The day before, my kite-string snapped, And I, my kite pursuing,

The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;

There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing, -

A little stir among the clouds,

Before they rent asunder,

A little rocking of the trees,

And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground
As if the Titans battled;

And all above was in a howl,

And all below a clatter, —
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats

Go riding off like witches;

I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,

I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds as if

The devil had been in them;

They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches, -
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-

"My breeches! O my breeches!"