A White-Pine Ballad.

Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved,

Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved;

But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine,

Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.

Johnson's folly — to be candid — was a wild desire to treat

Every able male white citizen he met upon the street;

And there being several thousand — but this subject why pursue?

‘ Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.

No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow,

But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low.

‘ Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment,

That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent.

“Milton Perkins,” said the Siren, “not thy wealth do I admire,

But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire;

And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced,

And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!” Milton Perkins her embraced.

But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry

The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins’ eye,

She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace

Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.

Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found

With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground;

And he murmured “Seraphina,” and he kissed his hand, and smiled

On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.

Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign,

In this tale of Milton Perkins,— late an owner in White Pine,—

You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same;

And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.