282 The Corslcan Bandit. [MARCH, 



Poor houseless maniac ! thou hast indeed drank of affliction's cup. 

 Thy fair promise has been blighted. Thy morn of life has vanished. 

 Thy home, thy friends, thy lover, all are lost. Thou hast passed the 

 gradations of worldly benevolence ; but thou couldst not taste their 

 bitterness : Providence in its mercy has deadened thy heart to the stings 

 of close-handed charity, cold neglect, or the still more galling pity that, 

 looking down from its proud and prosperous elevation, insults the misery 

 for which it feigns to feel ! 



We descended slowly towards the valley. I was silent, and my guide 

 was less talkative than usual. We saw her no more ; but ever and anon 

 the breeze, which now sprang up, wafted to our ears the distant sound 

 of one of those lengthened Corsican airs those sad mountain-melodies, 

 whose last notes, like the plaintive strains of an echo, are repeated from 

 the hills. I recognized a love-ditty, which I had often heard in the 

 course of my excursions, and which perhaps had been sung by Pietro : 

 " Specchiu delle zitelle della pieve, 

 " Piu biaricu de hi brucciu e de la neve," &c.* 



It was the poor maniac ! 



CARTHAGINIAN COMICALITIES: 

 BY ONE OF THE PUN-IC SCHOOL. 



Punning is a talent which no man affects to despise, but he who is without it. SWIFT. 



No. I. TIM TIPPLE, THE TOPER. 

 TIM TIPPLE was a drunken wight, 



In fact, a downright sot, 

 Whose friends with grief saw every night 



Tim going fast to pot. 



Yet still he kept his spirits up, 



By pouring spirits down ; 

 And, whene'er he went out to sup, 



He supped his cares to drown. 

 Tim drinking loved of every sort, 



No matter where he went ; 

 For sailors' healths he drank in port, . 



And soldiers' pledged in tent. 

 Of lisbon he would swallow much, 



Like Lisbon's famed earthquake; 

 And Hollands drank with all the Dutch, 



With sextons, grave would take. 



Old hock he loved nay, if 'twas new, 



He could it not decline ; 

 And yet 'tis said, that of the two, 



He'd choose the elder wine. 



With millers he'd toss sack each day, 



With gardeners, shrub at lunch ; 

 And oft he'd drink old car away 



With showmen over punch. 



In Wales, of mountain he'd his fill 



With parsons drank pure rum ; 

 With coachmen, lots of cape would swill 

 With silent women, mum ! 



Mirror of young maidens of the parish, 

 Whiter than snow and the brochio. [ 



[A sort of cheese. J 



