John Burns of Gettysburg.

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff,
Stood there picking the rebels off,-

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat,
And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

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'Twas but a moment, for that respect

Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand;

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair,
The Past of the Nation in battle there;

And some of the soldiers since declare

That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the res::
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed,

Broke at the final charge, and ran.

At which John Burns—a practical man-
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,

And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns;

This is the moral the reader learns :

In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!

THE TALE OF A PONY.

NAME of my heroine, simply "Rose;" Surname, tolerable only in prose;

Habitat, Paris, that is where

She resided for change of air;
Ætat xx.; complexion fair,

Rich, good-looking, and débonnaire,
Smarter than Jersey-lightning-There!
That's her photograph, done with care.

In Paris, whatever they do besides,
EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES !
Moire antiques you never meet

Sweeping the filth of a dirty street;
But every woman's claim to ton
Depends upon

The team she drives, whether phaeton,
Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain
That Rose, who was of her toilet vain,
Should have a team that ought to be
Equal to any in all Paris!

"Bring forth the horse!"-The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair

Leading an equipage rich and rare :

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Why doth that lovely lady stare ?”

Why? The tail of the off gray mare
Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear,
Scarcely showing as much back-hair

As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,”—and there
Lord knows she'd little enough to spare.

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew,

But did, as well-bred Frenchmen do:

Raised his shoulders above his crown,

Joined his thumbs, with the fingers down,

The Tale of a Pony.

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And said, "Ah, Heaven!"--then, "Mademoiselle,
Delay one minute, and all is well!"

He went; returned; by what good chance
These things are managed so well in France
I cannot say, but he made the sale,
And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.

All that is false in this world below

Betrays itself in a love of show

Indignant Nature hides her lash

;

In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;
The shallowest fop will trip in French,
The would-be critic will misquote Trench;
In short, you're always sure to detect
A sham in the things folks most affect;
Bean-pods are noisiest when dry,

And you always wink with your weakest
And that's the reason the old gray mare

For ever had her tail in the air,

With flourishes beyond compare,

Though every whisk

Incurred the risk

Of leaving that sensitive region bare:

eye: