In cold winter weather the heat is intense; Reality 's only a name for pretence. If a man dies of hunger they say that he's gorged; Men walk on their hands-these they put into shoes; Plates are teapots and kettles, but chopsticks are cups. 12TH MONTH. In the twelfth month 'tis hot, for Midsummer is come; Men who shun women are styled "wicked rakes." When a coffin is dead, he is placed in a corse e; If you speak of the present, you say, "by-and-bye;" When you know one speaks truth, then be sure 'tis a lie. The last month is finished, so, too, is my song; If you look, you'll perceive it is just twelve months long. It contains many facts, which some folks may deem To be falsehoods, but all things are not what they seem. THE BEATER'S SONG, OR TING-LANG'S SEARCH FOR HIS FATHER. Hail New Year! Welcome New Year! How bright the lamps in the streets appear! Through the streets and seen The crowds and lights to hail the New Year! May our blessings and wealth increase! The boy went home when the three drums beat * And flung himself at his mother's feet; * Midnight. Where, hiding his face in her lap, he kept Peaceful Year! Year of peace! When will the tears of the poor boy cease! "Tell me, darling-tell me why Who but a mother can give relief? "Mother, whenever I'm in the street, I'm jeered by every boy I meet; They say I've no father-have got no name; -a waif- -a stray A floating weed-a toadstool sprung From the vilest of places-a heap of dung? That you, mother, you, I so much revere, Were ? let me breathe the vile word in your ear,— But I knew, mother darling, that was untrue, For the angels are not more pure than you! The mother had listened with drooping head, To all that her weeping son had said; "Ne'er heed, my child, what the street-boys say, Then she told to her child all her history, Till his father, one fatal day, was sent, She told him where he 'd been sent, and how He now had been gone twelve weary years; |