The Palace

It's far away under the water, And it's far away under the sea, There's a beautiful palace a-waiting For my little Rosy and me.

The roof is made of coral, And the floor is made of pearl, And over it all the great waves fall With a terrible tumble and whirl.

The fishes swim in at the window, And the fishes swim out at the door, And the lobsters and eels go dancing quadrilles All over the beautiful floor.

There's a silver throne at on end, And a golden throne at the other; And on them you see, as plain as can be, "Queen Rosy" and "Queen Mother."

And I will sit on the silver throne, And Rosy shall sit on the gold; And there we will stay, and frolic and play, Until we're a thousand years old.

BUNKER HILL MONUMENT.

Do you see that stately column, Children dear, Lifting its gray head to heaven, Year by year? Telling of the battle fought, Telling of the good work wrought, Telling of the victory bought, Bought so dear!

Oh! the costly blood that flowed, Children mine! Fast as from the purple grapes Flows the wine! Oh! the heroes lying dead! Oh! the women's hearts that bled! Oh! the bitter tears they shed, Children mine!

Long ago the tears were dried, Children dear! Long ago the weepers died, Year by year. But the column old and gray Tells the story day by day. "Victory!" it seems to say. "Victory's here!"

MAY.

Is there anything new to sing about you, May, my dear? Any unhackneyed thing about you, Pray, my dear? Anything that has not been sung Long ago, when the world was young, By silver throat and golden tongue? Say, my dear!

So many have said that your eyes are blue, May, my dear; It must be a tiresome fact, though true, May, my dear. And if I, for one, my gracious Queen, Should boldly assert that your eyes are green, 'Twould be a relief to you, I ween. Eh, my dear?

We know, at the touch of your garment's fold, May, my dear, The daisies come starring with white and gold The way, my dear; We know that the painted blossoms all Come starting up at your gentle call, By dale and meadow and garden wall, May, my dear.

We know that your birds have the sweetest tune, May, my dear; And lovers love best beneath your moon, They say, my dear. And I might add that your perfumed kiss Is considered productive of highest bliss; But you must be so tired of hearing this. Eh, my dear?

No, I really don't think there's anything fresh Or new, my dear; For life is short, and available rhymes Are few, my dear. So if I say nought about vernal bowers, And forbear to mention the sunlit showers, I think I shall make the best use of my powers. Don't you, my dear?

And yet--yet I cannot help loving you so, May, my dear, That the old words, whether I will or no, I say, my dear. And how you are fair, and how you are sweet, My loving lips forever repeat,-- And is this the reason you pass so fleet? Ah, stay, my dear!

GREGORY GRIGGS.

Gregory Griggs, Gregory Griggs, Had forty-seven different wigs; He wore them up, and he wore them down, To please the people of Boston town. He wore them east, and he wore them west, But he never could tell which he liked the best.

A NURSERY TRAGEDY.

It was a lordly elephant, His name, his name was Sprite; He stood upon the nursery floor, All ready for a fight.

He looked upon the rocking-horse, Who proudly prancing stood: "O rocking-horse! O shocking horse! I'm thirsting for your blood!

"How dare you stand and look at me, You ugly snorting thing? Know, that of every living beast, The elephant is king!

"And if a person looks at me, Unless I give him leave, He's very apt to meet his death Too swiftly for reprieve.

"You are the most unpleasant beast I e'er have looked on yet; Although the stupid children here Will make of you a pet.

"I hate your tail of waving hair! I hate your bits of brass! But more, oh, more than all, I hate Your gleaming eyes of glass!

"Were you of cotton-flannel made, As nursery beasts should be, With eyes of good black boot-buttons, You then might look at me.

"I might forgive your want of tusks, Your lack of trunk forgive; But that wild, goggling, glassy glare-- No! never, while I live!

"So get you gone, you rocking-horse! Go to your closet-shed, And there, behind the wood-basket, Conceal your ugly head!"

But as the elephant thus did scold And rage and fume and roar, The rocking-horse rocked over him, And crushed him to the floor.