The morning dawned. The rorid earth upon,
Old Sol looked down, to do his work siccate,
My sneek I raised to greet the ethe sun,
And sauntering forth passed out my garden gate.
A blithe specht sat on yon declinous tree
Bent on delection to its bark extern;
A merle anear observed (it seemed to me)
The work, in hopes to make owse how to learn.
A drove of kee passed by; I made a stond,
For fast as kee how could my old legs travel?
But--immorigerous brutes!--with feet immund
They seemed to try my broadcloth garb to javel.
The semblance of a mumper then I wore,
Though a faldisdory before I might have graced;
Eftsoons I found, when standing flames before,
The mud to siccate, it was soon erased.
If we should turn our attention studiously to this line of literary
effort, we feel encouraged to believe that our success in a field of
late so popular would be marked, and that we should obtain a degree of
fame herein, beside which that of the moat shining light in the stilted
firmament would pale its ray. But so long as God gives us the glorious
privilege of emulating the stars, we shall not seek to win a place among
the 'tallow dips' of parrot-poetry.