O lift me out of this weary world,
And put me on a tree,
For life is all noughts
And crosses, or thoughts
That are busy for brawl and spree!

For where is the man would strike the lyre,
Or spurn with his foot the thief,
Or melt all day,
In a Midsummer way,
At the sight of repentant grief?

No! Lift me up to a leafy bough,
Where my feet may play in the breeze,
If my hot head there
Still singe my hair,
My heels may be ready to freeze!

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO. II.--THE WINGED HAT.

My hat, my hat--away it flew--
The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong--
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,