• There was a small boy of Quebec,
    Who was buried in snow to his neck;
      When they said. “Are you friz?”
      He replied, “Yes, I is—
    But we don’t call this cold in Quebec.”

  • A Traveller through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;
    And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.
    Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breath its early vows;
    And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;
    The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore;
    It stood a glory in its place, a...