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CALLS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

At the melancholy calling of an eligible son!

For no sound more sweet can float,

From the wit within his throat,

Than a pun!

And the people, - ah, the people, -

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Not content to call a leetle

On their flame,

And who, calling, calling, calling,

Always telling each the same,

Feel a glory to see falling

Into every stand their name.

They are neither man nor woman,

They are neither brute nor human, -

They are fools;

Society, their king who rules,

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