A curse rose to my lip, as I sailed, As I sailed; A curse rose to my lip, as I sailed; A curse rose to my lip as on the Yankee ship Through the darkness I did slip, as I sailed. And I ran the Yankee down, as I sailed, As I sailed; And I ran the Yankee down, as I sailed; Ay, I ran the Yankee down, and I left the dogs to drown, While to Yokohama town on I sailed. They say they showed a light, as I sailed, As I sailed; They say they showed a light, as I sailed; They say they showed a light, to tell their hopeless plight, But "I served them bloody right," as I sailed! For my name is Captain EYRE, as I sail, As I sail; My name is Captain EYRE, as I sail; For my name is Captain EYRE, and it's d-----d absurd, I swear, That for Yankees I should care, as I sail! * * * * * "Arcades Ambo." As there seem to be some disorganizing elements just now at work in the ancient and honorable order of the Knights of Pythias, might it not be well for them to compromise by a fraternal secession of the discontented spirits, who could form a kindred order under the title of the Deys of Damon? * * * * * USEFUL MATERIAL FOR FANCY CLOG-DANCERS--Sandal-wood. * * * * * [Illustration: March 4, 1869. A GIANT AMONG THE PIGMIES. March 4, 1870. A PIGMY AMONG THE GIANTS.] * * * * * PUNCHINELLO IN WALL STREET. That it is not PUNCHINELLO'S intention to overlook Wall street, may be absolutely taken at par. To look over Wall street is quite another matter, and P. knows how to do it to a T. Many a time at midnight, from his perch on the tip of the spire of Old Trinity, (a tip-top point from which to look over Wall street--you see the point?) has PUNCHINELLO beheld the ghosts of dead speculations floating hopelessly through the murky air. It could not be said of them that there was "no speculation in those eyes." The ghost of a dead speculation was never so utterly damned, the eyes of a ghost of a dead speculation were never so absolutely dimmed, but that speculation of some kind might be discerned fluttering like a mummy-cloth from the shadowy outline of the former, and gleaming feebly from the gloomy goggles of the latter. Gleam on, poor ghosts! Goggle while you may, and gibber. PUNCHINELLO watches you with interest, (25 per cent.,) as you are weighed down to the very dirt of The Street by the night-fog of Despair, flapping your wings on a very small "margin," as if attempting vainly to "operate for a rise." Go down, poor ghosts; repair to your incandescent place below, for there is no hope for you. As we sit here upon our spire, we can not say to you, _Dum spiramus speramus_. Alas! no. We would like to do so, of course; but our sense of truth revolts against the enunciation of such a taradiddle.