This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks, With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best; For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair. 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when FANNY sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms! I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint FANNY, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-- My FANNY I see in my cane-bottomed chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. STANZAS TO PALE ALE. PUNCH. Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; From thee my lips they could not sever By saying thou contain'dst strychnine. Did I believe the slander? Never! I held thee still to be divine. For me thy color hath a charm, Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; And be thou cold when I am warm, As late I've been--so high the scale Of FAHRENHEIT--and febrile harm Allay, refrigerating Ale!