But Luff contrived a novel mode His creditors to chouse; For his own execution he Put into his own house! A pistol to the muzzle charged He took devoid of fear; Said he, "This barrel is my last, So now for my last bier!" Against his lungs he aimed the slugs, And not against his brain, So he blew out his lights--and none Could blow them in again! A Jury for a Verdict met, And gave in it these terms:-- "We find as how as certain slugs Has sent him to the worms!" MORNING MEDITATIONS. Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy How well to rise while nights and larks are flying-- For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as _lying_. What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out-- Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout. Talk not to me of bees and such like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime-- Only lee long enough, and bed becomes A bed of _time_. To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought, His steeds that paw impatiently about,-- Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out! Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl; What then,--if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl? My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs "Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?" Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon. An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"-- Well--he died young. With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be "All up--all up!" So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;-- A man that's fond precociously of _stirring_, Must be a spoon. A PLAIN DIRECTION. "Do you never deviate?" _John Bull_. In London once I lost my way In faring to and fro, And ask'd a little ragged boy The way that I should go; He gave a nod, and then a wink, And told me to get there "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I box'd his little saucy ears, And then away I strode; But since I've found that weary path Is quite a common road. Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a famous town That drove a famous trade, Where Whittington walk'd up and found A fortune ready made. The very streets are paved with gold; But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square." I've read about a Fairy Land, In some romantic tale, Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive And wicked Giants fail.