At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?

On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well
As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday.
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
To me it seems that in the oddest way

(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious-
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk

About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,

If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,

As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin

(Unless he's loose) --to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday(That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin 's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy? In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,

That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,

The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird or the filial Stork?

The punctual Crane- the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?

Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feathered marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver that sagacious beast!

The Sheep that owned an Oriental ShepherdThat Desert-ship, the Camél of the East,

The horned Rhinoceros - the spotted LeopardThe Creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than MondayThe Elephant, although he wears no band,

Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,

Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature"? Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure-hour amongst the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss

(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)

But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus

Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology? Is Brahma's Bull a Hindoo god at home —

A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday-
Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast — rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,

Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

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 lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,-
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy maids appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered 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 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 BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated as to cheat."-HUDIBRAS.

THE history of human-kind to trace

Since Eve the first of dupes - our doom unriddled, A certain portion of the human race

Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!
A rage that time seems only to redouble-
The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes.
For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.
No matter what, to pasture cows on stubble,
To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,
Or light with gas the whole celestial cope-

Only propose to blow a bubble,

And, Lord! what hundreds will subscribe for soap!

Soap! it reminds me of a little tale,

Though not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,
When rustic games and merriment prevail —
But here's my story:

Once on a time -no matter when
A knot of very charitable men

Set

up a Philanthropical Society,
Professing on a certain plan
To benefit the race of man,
And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior-as in vermin,
The sable is to ermine,

As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, as soot to driven snow,