Weekly Trinity journal., 1872-03-16

There came a longing for life's unknown
streams
Though long with GORDON she had grown
and throve,
She thought 'twere time her JOYS were
crowned with LOVE,
And her old guardian, weary of her
charms,
Resigned her to another's ''hopeful arms"
OF her new masters, there's no need to
speak,
Her readers see or hear them every week.
Much could be said, but still the muse
foregoes
To rehearse truths that every body knows.
She wears the crown which she received
since they
Her steps have led along LIES varied
way;
This is sufficient proof that they have been
Efficient wielders of the Type and Pen.
But to delinquents now she grows severe,
And am one, as plainly doth appear
From Il short note that on my table lies,
At which, l own, l cannot feel surprise
Yet, how to answer it in courteous way,
And say that | those figures cannot pay,
Not now, at least, is quite puzzle, which
Though not as bad, perhaps, as the "last
ditch I"
The Southrons talked of, still, to me, is
mora
Than all the famous Gordian knots of
yore.
No man can pay, all win agree no doubt,
Without penny in his purse, or out,
And with no prospects, that he deems
secure,
OF making debts and creditors the fewer.
But I've a plan III take to writing
rhyme,
Therefore look out for something--not
sublime
Not poetry, for it would cost too much, it
Would look so strange, too, there's no one
would touch it
But rhyme, plain rhyme, though not the
"dialect" sort,
And with "JACINTo and our "UNCLE
SNORT"
Make of the JOURNAL such charming
sheet,
With letter'd news and rhyming views
complete
The views, of course, considered best of
all,
Save when "JAcINTo gets musey
haul
That every one will take the paper, sure,
And though delinquents be not any fewer,
The profits ON the thousands who WILL
pay
Will make its publishers so rich that they
Win not find room to stow away their
gold,
Sent to them by subscribers manifold
And then their hearts to generous thoughts
inclined
Will grateful be to him who long has
mined,
Nor found the "color" wherewith to
erase
The long account for which he'd "run
his face"
And took his pen up as last resort,
When patience, on both sides, was run
ming short,
And wrought these changes, making them
as fat
AS are the mice around brewers vat.
Therefore, some day, in sober conclave
met
To count their hourds and each his snare
to get;
And each his heart with gratitude DER
flowed
For him who hoisted them on Fortunes
road,
Each will remark to each
"Can we do aught
6 For this poor man misfortunes dire have
caught
With such grip, that where-so- Ter he
goes
The herbage Of the field no longer
grows
"While things of life decay to skin and
bones
And pass away with deaths expiring
groans-
No form of life on which he sets his
eyes
"With love and hope, or hates him or it
dies
"Or fees from him, yet with fair beam
ing hands
" Leads him vain pursuit o'er desert
sands.
Where'er he goes, with thought there
to abide,
"The waters cease and all the streams
are dried
No longer there is heard the mountain
quail
" The deer all vanish and the mines all
fail
1.-THE farmer mourns the dearth Of fruit
ful rain,
" And blight and death o'ertakes both
grass and grain.
I" This man who sends us all these rhymes
can we
A." BE certain of just who the man may
be?
" For if we can, we'll send the paper
free.
Gwen judge him for the man that owes
us more
" Than any man e'er owed at once be-
fore.
"'Tis lucky for US" just their words /