But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings.



TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read,

II.

By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends.



THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT

When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbor ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd. Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was grieved to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet; He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excite stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('T was Nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect, Not by his frigid constitution; But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow Of Chastity, as monks do now: Which he resolved to keep forever hence, And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess? —Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job. No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.

The cringing Knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case. Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd, because he could not flatter: He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he can not fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meager looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He can not help it, for his heart, Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good, Supports their minds with heavenly food: At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a-day to prayers, He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favorite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practiced to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'T was he defeated the excise. 'T was known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station, To serve the king, and please the nation. Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity; 'Tis true, the people understood. That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out every year; Must at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound, He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations, To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother, And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk,

I own the moral not exact, Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up, From fields Elysian, fabling Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, For libeling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers, While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents every day. The Ass was never known so stupid, To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be stroked, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles. But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.



A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES. WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

[Footnote: The following foot-note's, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.]

To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find A simile* for womankind, *[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le. In English, a likeness.] A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em. [Footnote: Not to hurt them.] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud* presented to my view, *[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.] And straight this parallel I drew:

Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim? [Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]

Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.—Diog, Laert,

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,— Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?—Plat, de ira cohibenda.

I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.]

The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam: [Footnote: Ramble.] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting, [Footnote: Not vomiting.] Are not more solid nor more lasting, A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled, [Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.] Though in the darkest dumps* you view them, *[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.] Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection, [Footnote: Reflection of the sun.] And frequently produce infection: So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbor's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron* will confess, *[Footnote: Motherly woman.] That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colors are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,* *[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapors rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace. [Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail, *[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.] Our ears on every side assail. Clouds when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,* you see, *[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.] In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name, Let me proclaim* it then aloud, *[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.] That every woman is a cloud.

ON A LAPDOG. JOHN GAY.

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more: Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore. Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair, Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care. Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd, And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair, Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow, And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast, No dread events upon this fate attend, Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state, And dying lions show the monarch's fate, Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? Fo when a lapdog falls, no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears, Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd: "Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd."



THE RAZOR SELLER. PETER PINDAR.

A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow BE a knave, Provided that the razors SHAVE; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried— All were imposters—"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of OPPOSITION stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow—found him—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't SHAVE."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would SHAVE." "Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile—"to SELL."



THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS. PETER PINDAR.

A great law Chief, whom God nor demon scares, Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers, The devil behind him pleased and grinning, Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder, Declaring naught was ever bolder, Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare, Which proves what blood game infidels can dare; Which to my memory brings a fact, Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given, For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven, Particularly in a storm, Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Their souls are in a miserable funk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, If in His goodness only once, once more, He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out, Gave him a clawing to some tune— This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, "And save your d—-d young sinful soul." He then the moral-mending cat applied, And turned him like a badger from his hole

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him "Flog," cried the boy, "flog—curse me, flog away— I'll go—but mind—G—d d—n me if I'll PRAY."



BIENSEANCE PETER PINDAR.

There is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance, Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline, In many cases; To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity— I deem it a most portable commodity, A sort of magic wand, Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand

For verily I've marveled times enow To see an Englishman, the ninny, Give people for their services a guinea, Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity, But as they pay their court to people's vanity, Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go The souls and faces of mankind like dough! With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail To folly—see the under-written tale:

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL

At Paris some time since, a murdering man, A German, and a most unlucky chap, Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan, Fell into Justice's strong trap

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, On which the dullest fibers learn to feel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more; Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant petit maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry— "Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."



KINGS AND COURTIERS. PETER PINDAR

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see! So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; To start, to run, to leap, to fly, And gambol in the royal eye; And, if expectant of some high employ, How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose! How liquidly the oil of flattery flows! But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour, How altered instantly the courtier clan! How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In fancy holds her ever in his arms: In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances—slumber brings the dream— Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown—but smile: Sublime are royal nods—most precious things!— Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat—worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"—pointing to the shoulder—I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"— Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As—"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.

Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear— Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl.



PRAYING FOR RAIN. PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind! One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, petition for a southern, utters. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?—I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain. The parson most devoutly prayed— The powers of prayer were soon displayed; Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay: Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring. It happened too that Robin was from home; But when he heard the story, in a foam He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing! A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! What! pray for RAIN before I SAVED my hay! Oh! you re a cruel and ungrateful man! I that forever help you all I can; Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay, Whenever we have something on the spit, Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, Whose bones you are so fond of picking; And often too a cag of brandy! YOU that were welcome to a treat, To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; Making my house so very handy!

"YOU, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies, With MY fine field of hay before your eyes! A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.— Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!" "Dear Mister Jay!" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas! I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose— Was not the field just underneath your NOSE? This is a very pretty losing job!"— "Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer,"— "Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only SPORT: What doth Cobb own that any rain can HURT?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can LARN, A few old houses only, and a barn; As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to HIM? Not Noah's flood could make HIS trumpery SWIM.

"Besides—why could you not for drizzle pray? Why force it down in BUCKETS on the hay? Would I have played with YOUR hay such a freak? No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest, I acted solely for the best; I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. Your anger for this ONCE restrain, I'll never bring a drop again Till you and all the parish are AGREED."



APOLOGY FOR KINGS PETER PINDAR

As want of candor really is not right, I own my satire too inclined to bite: On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup— Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things From lofty folk, particularly kings? Look on their poverty of education! Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods, And by their awful frowns and nods, Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind! Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend A little with their subjects to unbend! An instance take:—A king of this great land, In days of yore, we understand, Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair: An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide; Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side; And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown, And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down, Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay: Looking the frightened verger through and through, And with his eye-glass—"Well, sir, who are you? What, what, sir?—hey, sir?" deigned the king to say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing; Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean." "Hey? verger! verger!—you the verger?—hey?" "Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE," The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear, "Hey, hey—what, what—fine fellow, 'pon my word: I'll knight him, knight him, knight him—hey, my lord?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.]

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain, He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried: "Sixpence would handsomely requite him." "Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him—no, won't knight him." Now to the lofty roof the king did raise His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise! For thus his marveling majesty did speak: "Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete; High—high and lofty too, and clean, and neat: What, verger, what? MOP, MOP it once a week?"

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops, The verger answered, "we have got no mops In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king— "No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing; They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

MORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly show That ignorance, a king too often lurches; For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know The natural history of mops and churches?



STORY THE SECOND.

From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand, Returned the mighty ruler of the land— "My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king. "A few! beneath your royal notice, sir," Replied Lord Pembroke—"Sir, my lord, stir, stir; Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing,

"Who's this? who's this?—who's this fine fellow here? "Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer. "Sir Sostris, hey?—Sir Sostris?—'pon my word! Knight or a baronet, my lord?

One of my making?—what, my lord, my making?" This, with a vengeance, was mistaking?

"SE-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied— "A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old." "Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried, "I need not that—I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?" "'Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer; "Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey? Cleaned stables!—cracked a lion like a flea; Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him— The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him."

Our moral is not merely water-gruel— It shows that curiosity's a jewel! It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell: It shows that subjects must not give opinions To people reigning over wide dominions, As information to great folk is hell:

It shows that decency may live with kings, On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs; And shows (for numerous are the naked things) That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.



ODE TO THE DEVIL. PETER PINDAR.

The devil is not so black as he is painted.

Ingratum Odi.

Prince of the dark abodes! I ween Your highness ne'er till now hath seen Yourself in meter shine; Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere. Sweet warbled on your smutty ear, Before this Ode of mine.

Perhaps the reason is too plain, Thou triest to starve the tuneful train, Of potent verse afraid! And yet I vow, in all my time, I've not beheld a single rhyme That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims— John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns, That chant of heavenly riches. What have they done?—those heavenly strains, Devoutly squeezed from canting brains, But filled John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoe-black in the land, So humbly at the world's command, As thy old cloven foot; Like lightning dost thou fly, when called, And yet no pickpocket's so mauled As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin, With supplication call thee in, To aid them to pursue it; Yet, when detected, with a lie Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry, "The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made, By men through rouguish tricks in trade, Yet all to thee are owing— And though we meet it every day, The sneaking rascals dare not say, This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure, No man can shun thee on that score; The very best is thine: With kings, queens, ministers of state, Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great, And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely grieved at times to find, The very instant thou art kind, Some people so uncivil, When aught offends, with face awry, With base ingratitude to cry, "I wish it to the Devil."

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife, To be the torment of his life, By one eternal yell— The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds, I'd give this moment twenty pounds To see the jade in hell."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant, Thou never company wouldst want To make thee downright mad; For, mind me, in their wishing mood, They never offer thee what's good, But every thing that's bad.

My honest anger boils to view A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew, So much thy humble debtors, Rushing, on Sundays, one and all, With desperate prayers thy head to maul, And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week, On thee their black abuse to wreak, By whom their souls are fed Each minute of the other six, With every joy that heart can fix, Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart, And led my steps to joy— The charms of beauty have been mine And let me call the merit thine, Who broughtst the lovely toy.

So, Satan—if I ask thy aid, To give my arms the blooming maid, I will not, though the nation all, Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp) A vile old good-for-nothing pimp, But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."

Since truth must out—I seldom knew What 'twas high pleasure to pursue, Till thou hadst won my heart— So social were we both together, And beat the hoof in every weather, I never wished to part.

Yet when a child—good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got, With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout, With claws beyond comparing.

Taught to avoid the paths of evil, By day I used to dread the devil, And trembling when 'twas night, Methought I saw thy horns and ears, They sung or whistled to my fears, And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed, I sweated with a constant dread, And crept beneath the rug; There panting, thought that in my sleep Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep, And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine, With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine, To suit both man and maid: Thy wares they buy, with open eyes; How cruel then, with constant cries, To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath— Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth, Without thy aid, old sweeper; So mawkish, few will put it down, Even from the cottage to the crown, Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer, Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear, Black, red, or blue, or yellow; Whatever hypocrites may say, They think thee (trust my honest lay) A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!) To praise the bridge o'er which we pass Yet often I discover A numerous band who daily make An easy bridge of thy poor back, And damn it when they 're over.

Why art thou, then, with cup in hand, Obsequious to a graceless band, Whose souls are scarce worth taking; O prince, pursue but my advice, I'll teach your highness in a trice To set them all a quaking.

Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy: Lock up each charming fille de joie; Give race-horses the glander— The dice-box break, and burn each card— Let virtue be its own reward, And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I'll lay my life, There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife, That will not glad agree, If thou will chaim'em as before, To show their nose at church no more, But quit their God for thee.

Tis now full time my ode should end: And now I tell thee like a friend, Howe'er the world may scout thee; Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning, And folks so very fond of sinning, They can not do without thee.



THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE. PETER PINDAR.

In seventeen hundred seventy-eight, The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain, Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite The peaceful natives of the western main, With faggots and the blood-delighting sword, To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!

For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling, Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling, Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further; For which most pious reason, hard to work, They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork, To charm the God of mercy with their murther!

I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed, In tapestry so rich, portrayed, A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle: Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried To fix his foot the palfry to bestride; In vain!—he could not o'er the palfry straddle!

Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained, And every effort of the King disdained, Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled, And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.

Prodigious was the struggle of the day, The horse attempted not to run away; At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin, And swore by every saint and holy martyr He would not yield the traitor quarter, Until he got possession of his skin.

Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight, Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight, And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts of hay.

Not with more energy and fury The beauteous street—walker of Drury Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade, Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile, Ah, me! her paramour beguile, And to her bed of healthy straw persuade; Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl, And snails with silver traces deck the wall.

And now a cane, and now a whip he used, And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised; Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick, Arid bore with Christian spirit whip and stick; And what excessively provoked this prince, The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.

Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow To shoot the rebel like a sparrow; And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force, Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!

Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar, With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore, Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast; Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel, Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell, Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast; Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his godlike ire, He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire! Showing his pages round, poor trembling things, How dangerous to resist the will of kings.



THE TENDER HUSBAND. PETER PINDAR

Lo, to the cruel hand of fate, My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate, Resigns her tuneful breath— Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale, And blue each harmless finger-nail, She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep, I scarce can think her but asleep— How wonderfully tame! And yet her voice is really gone, And dim those eyes that lately shone With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight, To take it in his head to smite— To lift his dart to hit her; For as she was so great a woman, And cared a single fig for no man, I thought he feared to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong, That many a sweet capriccio sung, And beat in sounds the spheres; No longer must those fingers play "Britons strike home," that many a day Hath soothed my ravished ears,

Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined To think how I may speak my mind, Nor hurt her dear repose; Nor think I now with rage she'd roar, Were I to put my fingers o'er, And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause- How wonderful are nature's laws, When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air, Like culinary fires,

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note, Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat, And loud instructive lungs; O Death, in her, though only one, Are lost a thousand charms unknown, At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh, And saw her gently-closing eye, How great was my surprise! Yet have I not, with impious breath, Accused the hard decrees of death, Nor blamed the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair, Since she'll be soon an angel fair? Ah! why my bosom smite? Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!— But let me give such ravings o'er— Whatever is, is right.

O doctor! you are come too late; No more of physic's virtues prate, That could not save my lamb: Not one more bolus shall be given— You shall not ope her mouth by heaven, And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of boluses, poor heart, And pills, she took, to load a cart, Before she closed her eyes: But now my word is here a law, Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw, She shall not seek the skies.

Good sir, good doctor, go away; To hear my sighs you must not stay, For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill; When next you come, pray bring your bill I'll pay it; sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom. For God's sake gently tread the room, Nor call her from the blessed— In softest silence drop the tear, In whispers breathe the fervent prayer, To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream; I can not bear a grief extreme— Enough one little sigh— Besides, the loud alarm of grief, In many a mind may start belief, Our noise is all a lie. Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care; Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare, Her mouth, ah! slowly close; Her mouth a magic tongue that held— Whose softest tone, at times, compelled To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake, Of stoutest oak her coffin make— I'd not be stingy, sure— Procure of steel the strongest screws, For who could paltry pence refuse To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey, With caution tread the doleful way, Nor shake her precious head; Since Fame reports a coffin tossed, With careless swing against a post, Did once, disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost! Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost, That I again will woo— By all our past delights, my dear, No more the marriage chain I'll wear, Deil take me if I do!



THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY. PETER PINDAR.

A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel, To parry from his soul the wrath Divine, That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple, Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine; Who every day is gorgeously decked out, In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small, Just like a fine young lady for a rout, A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball. At first the Soldier at a distance kept, Begging her vote and interest in heaven— With seeming bitterness the sinner wept, Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven: Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery! Declared what miracles the dame could do, Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe, And such like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner, Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her, The mouth of history doth not mention, And therefore I can't tell but by invention,

One day, as he was making love and praying, And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying, And sins so manifold confessing; He drew, as if to whisper, very near, And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear, Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

Then off he set, with nimble shanks, Nor once turned back to give her thanks: A hue and cry the thief pursued, Who, to his cost, soon understood That he was not beyond the claw Of that same long-armed giant, christened Law.

With horror did his judges quake— As for the tender-conscienced jury, They doomed him quickly to the stake, Such was their devilish pious fury.

However, after calling him hard names, They asked if aught he had in vindication, To save his wretched body from the flames, And sinful soul from terrible damnation.

The Soldier answered them with much sang froid, Which showed, of sin, a conscience void, That if they meant to kill him they might kill: As for the diamond which they found about him, He hoped they would by no means doubt him, That madam gave it him from pure good-will.

The answer turned both judge and jury pale; The punishment was for a time deferred, Until his Holiness should hear the tale, And his infallibility be heard.

The Pope, to all his counselors, made known This strange affair—to cardinals and friars, Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars. The question now was banded to and fro, If Mary had the power to GIVE, or NO.

That Mary COULD NOT give it, was to say The wonder-working lady wanted power— This was the stumbling-block that stopped the way— This made Pope, cardinals, and friars lower.

To save the Virgin's credit, And keep secure the diamonds that were left; They said, she MIGHT, indeed, the gem bestow, And consequently it might be no theft: But then they passed immediately an act, That every one discovered in the fact Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand, Or from the saints of any land, Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter, Flayed here, and fried eternally hereafter.

Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear To need poetical assistance; Which bids you not let men approach too near, But keep the saucy fellows at a distance; Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize Jewels from ladies, even upon their knees!



A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY PETER PINDAR

A king of France upon a day, With a fair lady of his court, Was pleased at battledore to play A very fashionable sport,

Into the bosom of this fair court dame, Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame, King Louis by odd mischance did knock The shuttlecock, Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves, To nestle with the pretty little loves! "Now, sire, pray take it out"—quoth she, With an arch smile,—But what did he? What? what to charming modesty belongs! Obedient to her soft command, He raised it—but not with his hand! No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs,

What a chaste thought in this good king! How clever! When shall we hear agen of such a thing? Lord! never, Nor were our princes to be prayed To such an act by some fair maid, I'll bet my life not one would mind it: But handy, without more ado, The youths would search the bosom through, Although it took a day to find it!



THE EGGS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that's of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled—they say— Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried— Sagacious man!—of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised— Most happy thought I—and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette. "Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!" But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, "I have it now—ye're all a pack of louts!— With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed." And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse, But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat: In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle, All had their day—the last was still the best But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill— But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!"

Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.



THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

"On good and bad an equal value sets The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets, And never fails to praise," With vile pretense, The scurrilous author thus his trash excused. A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense, Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.

A Donkey's master said unto his beast, While doling out to him his lock of straw, "Here, take it—since such diet suits your taste, And much good may it do your vulgar maw!" Often the slighting speech the man repeated. The Ass—his quiet mood by insult heated—

Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take, Master unjust! but not because I choose it. Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it." Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed How your defaults by false excuse you cover! Fed upon straw—straw it may eat, indeed; Try it with generous fare—'t will scorn the other.



THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED. WILLIAM COWPER.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mohammed's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarred; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These chose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mohammedans eat up the hog. You laugh—'tis well—The tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. Renounce the world—the preacher cries. We do—a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed; Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he; With, sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.



REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. WILLIAM COWPER.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court— Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one IF or BUT— That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight—Eyes should be shut!



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [Footnote: Kennedy gives the following account of the origin of "Holy Willie's Prayer;"—Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Clerk of Ayr, the Poet's friend and benefactor was accosted one Sunday morning by a mendicant, who begged alms of him. Not recollecting that it was the Sabbath, Hamilton set the man to work in his garden, which lay on lay on the public road, and the poor fellow was discovered by the people on their way to the kirk, and they immediately stoned him from the ground. For this offense, Mr. Hamilton was not permitted to have a child christened, which his wife bore him soon afterward, until he applied to the synod. His most officious opponent was William Fisher, one of the elders of the church: and to revenge the insult to his friend, Burns made him the subject of this humorous ballad.] ROBERT BURNS.

O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony giud or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here, afore thy sight. For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me into hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' thy flock.

[O L—d, then kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singing there, and dancing here, Wi' great and sma'; For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a'.]

But yet, O L—d! confess I must, At times I 'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defll'd in sin.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. L—d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

L—d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;— Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

L—d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L—d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L—d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O L—d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head.

L—d in the day of vengeance try him, L—d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

But, L—d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun— Observe wha's standing wi him!

Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane! Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"— MILTON.

O Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far: An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' Tirl in the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summon To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick—quack— Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip—wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour. Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog., An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Au' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But ai your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit; But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin', An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— Still hae a stake— I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!!



THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and hia breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through.

A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her, Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair— Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare. For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility

He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat;

And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth. And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him,

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge. As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work.

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition. He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion! And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's. Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow

Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come.

He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee

Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat! That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in. When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling,

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians,

My all sorts of—inians And all sorts of—arians; My all sorts of—ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils. How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils! My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the stitches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see! Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had. Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied It would one day be matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical competition; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road,

For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to Hell; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ——'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration.



CHURCH AND STATE. THOMAS MOORE.

When Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become— If't is not civil to say OLD— At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit, Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"—quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke— "I say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented—little knew What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted, too, By a laced coat he got in stead,

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows—shiver'd lamps to smash, And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 't was Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd By the laced coat, grew frisky too— Look'd big—his former habits spurn'd— And storm'd about as great men do—

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses— Said "Damn you," often, or as bad— Laid claim to other people's purses— In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense then sitting, Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As courts must wrangle to decide well), Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With, this proviso—Should they be Restored in due time to their senses, They both must give security In future, against such offenses—

Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; And Royalty to crack his joke— But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too.



LYING. THOMAS MOORE.

I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours; But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!



THE MILLENNIUM. SUGGESTBD BY THE LATE WORK OF THE KEVEKEND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." THOMAS MOORE.

Millennium at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it— As matters both public and private now go, With multitudes round us, all starving or near it, A good rich millennium will come A PROPOS.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold, Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags—

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound— A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian, Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at eaoh;—

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we May, even in our times a jubilee share, Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee, And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;—

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P., Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

There was also—but why should I burden my lay With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng,

Go on, mighty man—doom them all to the shelf— And, when next thou with prophecy tronblest thy sconce, Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!



THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL THOMAS MOORE

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old— Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut—as near as can be reckoned— Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND, Chronologers and verses vary, Which proves historians should be wary We only know the important truth— His Majesty HAD cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted, As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby As he was there by Eight Divine (What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine, And everybody's goods and rhino)— Of course his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors— Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses, And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye gods, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles? But no—if Thibet NAD M.P.s, They were far better bred than these, Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures—and, no doubt Those of ALL noble beasts—break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh— Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old General's toes— Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse—though with the aid Of an Archbishop—was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did NOT) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords—a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, For folks like Pidcock to exhibit— Some patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em— In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em—That, as for treason, 't was a thing That made them almost sick to think of— That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!— But still—though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)— They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong— Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;— In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping— They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read—no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss— "What, whip a Lama!—suffer birch To touch his sacred—-infamous! Deistical!—assailing thus The fundamentals of the Church! No—no—such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven—and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met— The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal MartyrDom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.



ETERNAL LONDON. THOMAS MOORE.

And is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As—"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear— The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast—(what! higher still?)— And—(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)— Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"

Go where we may—rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still, The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch— And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH— Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for traveling lasts, If Cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, WILL leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands— If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees—- If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids— Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the BLACKS of Carolina— Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China.



OF FACTOTUM NED. THOMAS MOORE.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last: Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT— Whatever statesmen did or said— If not exactly brought about, Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar— (Vide his pamphlet—price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo— As all, but Frenchmen, think she was— To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news—no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through it— Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz in— From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd—who advised the deed? Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright SEEN the King, He sent such hints through Viscount THIS, To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The drama, books, MS. and printed— Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 't— Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had—odd enough—a dangerous hole in't.

'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In THAT Ned—trust him—had his finger.



LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY—IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad naughty girl— Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em. But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!—there's no language expresses, Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd—I forget—a la—something which sounded Like alicampane—but, in truth, I'm confounded And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.— But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise, With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights— This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting, But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera—mercy, my ears! Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one "This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!" Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out), 'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about; That this passion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State. What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm! What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it! If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it! No—never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing—ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca— There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. Such beauty—such grace—oh ye sylphs of romance! Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if SHE has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias! Fanny Bias in Flora—dear creature!—you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground. And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music—so softly its cadences die, So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then—YOU'VE a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in), They call it the Play-house—I think—of Saint Martin: Quite charming—and VERY religious—what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;— Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC!

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where—I doubt If I well can describe—there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll—you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up—imagine, dear Doll, if you can— A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher! Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear—if Ma'maelle vil be so very good— Just for von little course"—though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set—and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together— Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre. Now, hear me—this stranger—it may be mere folly— But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly? Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.—he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should—unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push— Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu—only think, Dolly, think If this SHOULD be the King—I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he— For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising, and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

SECOND LETTER.

Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature! But DON'T you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in 't— For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't. At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE— (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!) But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie, Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch, That a Brandenburg—(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)— Would be, after all, no such very great catch, If the R—G—T, indeed—" added he, looking sly— (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him—"La, Pa, how CAN you say so, When the R—G—T loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear Dolly—we, girls of eighteen, And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen; And would like us much better as old—ay, as old As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover, Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear— You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

Let me see—'t was on Saturday—yes, Dolly, yes— From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly; And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!" Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois— And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we view'd—stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes— "LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think, Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"