“Ha! ha! 'no creature smarts so little as a fool.' Well said, Alexander the Little! Poll--pretty Poll! Pretty Poll! let's you and I Something merry and musical try, Is my voice too high? too low? Answer, Polly, yes or no! Not a word, undutiful bird, For barley-sugar and sugar-plums--fie!” But Poll's eyes still goggled at the door through which Uncle Tim and his finery had vanished. An almond or two from that _magazin de comfitures_, Mr. Bosky's waistcoat pocket, soon revived in the abstracted bird a relish for the good things of this world. He wetted his whistle cordially with a spoonful of maraschino, and sharpening his beak against the wires of his cage, presented it for a salute. He then gave token of a song, and the lauréat led, to the tune of the “_Dandy O!_” THE QUAKER DUET. O Tabitha, in truth, I'm a sober Quaker youth; Then Hymen's knot, the pretty girls, to spite'em, tye. My heart is in your trap; you've crimp'd it, like your cap; And much the spurrit moves me--hum!--to-- Poll.......Tye turn tye! And when the knot is tyed, and you're my blushing bride, The damsels will (for leading apes must fright'em,) tye The rosy bands with speed. O yes, they will, indeed! And the chorus at our meeting will be-- Poll.......Tye tum tye! I cannot hear you sigh, ah! I will not see you cry, ah! My constant Obadi-ah I to unite'em; tye Our hands and hearts in one, before to-morrow's sun-- Then take thy tender Tabitha to-- Poll.......Tye turn tye! CHAPTER VIII.