And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt-- Now turnest--on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford-- There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.

Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm-- While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

MAN MAY BE HAPPY. PETER PINDAR.

"Man may be happy, if he will:" I've said it often, and I think so still; Doctrine to make the million stare! Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove; Can brew what weather he shall most approve, Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief--man's an ass, I say; Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain; He hides the charming, cheerful ray That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain! Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud-- The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth? The God of Nature?--No such thing; Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth, "Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing; Don't be too wise, and be an ape:-- In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn; Yet mind me--if, through want of grace, Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face, Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst, Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed-- Forever brooding over Misery's eggs, As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin; Mousing forever for a gin To catch their happiness by the legs.

Even at a dinner some will be unblessed, However good the viands, and well dressed: They always come to table with a scowl, Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish, Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish, Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.

A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal, Yet swear they can not make a meal. I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew! I hate to drop the discontented jaw! O let me Nature's simple smile pursue, And pick even pleasure from a straw.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. ROBERT BURNS.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!