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DEATH S DOINGS.

Free, as our glorious country free,Prospering in her prosperity,With wine, and jest, and harmony,We Pleasure's hours employ.

But lo, he whose face is half concealed by thatarm uplifted with the sparkling glass, he has drunktill the tender mood of philosophy steals over hismelting soul. His maudlin eye would moistenwith a tear at a tale of sorrow or a plaintive air;and it is thus he gives vent to his soothing melan-choly sensations—

Death comes but once, the philosophers say,

And 'tis true, my brave boys, but that once is a clencher :It takes us from drinking and loving away,

And spoils at a blow the best tippler and wencher.Sing Ai-lun, though to me very odd it is,Yet I sing it, too, as my friend quotes Herodotus.

And Death comes to all, so they tell us again,

Which also I fear, my brave boys, is no fable ;Yet the moral it teaches, to me is quite plain:

Tis to love all we can and to drink all we're able.Sing, again, Ai-lun, though to me odd it is;But 'tis Greek, very good I hope, and comes fromHerodotus.

The old Trojan himself tucks his napkin under hisarm, the whetting of his scythe is forgotten, andhe wishes (miserable sinner), that, instead of