THE BUTCHER'S COURTSHIP.

"On, my Mary Ann," he side,

"Will you be my loving bride?

I cannot liver 'nother day without you.

Your bright smile lights up my heart,

Whisper yes, beefore we part,

And the tenderlines of love I'll cast about you!"

Then the rascal, growing bolder,

Drew her head upon his shoulder,

While the ribbones on her bonnet fluttered free,

And fore-quarter of an hour

They reclined within the bower,

And she promised him she ever true would be.

"Now," says he, " I must be goin'—

Don't you hear the cattle loin?

I can tarry here no longer, love, to-day;

You can steak a silver dollar

I shall be a steady caller;

Keep your pluck and spirits up while I'm away!"

Then he turned to cross a mead

Where the horned cattle feed,

And wasn't paying very much attention

To the gender of the herd,

When there suddenly occurred

An accident he fain would never mention.

He chanced to look a round,

When towards him, with a bound,

Came their masculine protector o'er the lea;

And so brisket seemed to him

That his chance was rather slim

To flank him, or to even shin a tree.

He was bull dosed, so to speak,

Sorely rumpled, cowed and weak,

And will steer hereafter clear from bulls and cows.

The tail, alas! is sad;

Would'st shun a bull that's mad?

Then beware the quick contraction of his browse!