Time was, I always had a drop For any tale of sigh or sorrow; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow; I don’t know how it is, but now My eyelids seldom want a-drying; The doctor, p’rhaps, could tell me how-- I fear my heart is ossifying! O’er Goethe how I used to weep, With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet, When Werter put himself to sleep With pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte; Self-murder is an awful sin, No joke there is in bullets flying, But now at such a tale I grin-- I fear my heart is ossifying! The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerves, and set my tears a-stealing, The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying; ’Tis odd, so great a change of style-- I fear my heart is ossifying! That heart was such--some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it, And in his hat I used to throw The quarter’s savings of my pocket: I never wish--as I did _then_!-- The means from my own purse supplying, To turn them all to gentlemen-- I fear my heart is ossifying! We’ve had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow, [Illustration: “DOG-BERRY.”] [Illustration: THE LAST CUT.] New melo-drames, of tragic fate, And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow; Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt, And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing, But Lord!--so little have I felt, I’m sure my heart is ossifying! A CUSTOM-HOUSE BREEZE. One day--no matter for the month or year, A Calais packet, just come over, And safely moor’d within the pier, Began to land her passengers at Dover; All glad to end a voyage long and rough. And during which, Through roll and pitch, The Ocean-King had _sick_ophants enough! Away, as fast as they could walk or run, Eager for steady rooms and quiet meals, With bundles, bags, and boxes at their heels, Away the passengers all went but one, A female, who from some mysterious check, Still linger’d on the steamer’s deck, As if she did not care for land a tittle, For horizontal rooms, and cleanly victual-- Or nervously afraid to put Her foot Into an Isle described as “tight and little.” In vain commissioner and touter, Porter and waiter throng’d about her; Boring, as such officials only bore-- In spite of rope and barrow, knot and truck, Of plank and ladder, there she stuck, She couldn’t, no, she wouldn’t go on shore.