MY UNCLE'S LEGACY. 



Can it be that my uncle is dead? 



That his kind face no more I shall see? 

 Were you there when his last will was read . 



Did he leave a few thousand for me? 



To be frank, 'tis a very poor joke, 

 And I scorn all your unseemly mirth 



When you say that my uncle was "broke," 

 And that all that he left was the earth. 



A. 



THE MIST. 



Cold and damp, drear and damp, 

 The winds from the marshes blow, 



Damp and cold, drear and cold 

 Up from the swamps below. 



Bar the casement, let the mist 



Drift against the pane, 

 Hear the wet winds moan without, 



See the drizzling rain. 



Wrap your cloak across your heart 



Lest the chill creep near. 

 The marshes throw their vapors wide, 



Cold and damp and drear. 



