THE FOX AND THE HEN.

A FABLE.

Speaking within compass, as to fabulousness I prefer Southcote to Northcote. PIGROGROMITUS.

One day, or night, no matter where or when, Sly Reynard, like a foot-pad, laid his pad Right on the body of a speckled Hen, Determined upon taking all she had; And like a very bibber at his bottle, Began to draw the claret from her throttle; Of course it put her in a pretty pucker, And with a scream as high As she could cry, She call'd for help—she had enough of sucker.

Dame Partlet's scream Waked, luckily, the house-dog from his dream, And, with a savage growl In answer to the fowl, He bounded forth against the prowling sinner, And, uninvited, came to the Fox Dinner.

Sly Reynard, heedful of the coming doom, Thought, self-deceived, He should not be perceived, Hiding his brush within a neighboring broom! But quite unconscious of a Poacher's snare, And caught in copper noose, And looking like a goose, Found that his fate had "hung upon a hare"; His tricks and turns were rendered of no use to him, And worst of all he saw old surly Tray Coming to play Tray-Deuce with him.

Tray, an old Mastiff bred at Dunstable, Under his Master, a most special constable, Instead of killing Reynard in a fury, Seized him for legal trial by a Jury; But Juries—AEsop was a sheriff then— Consisted of twelve Brutes and not of Men.

But first the Elephant sat on the body— I mean the Hen—and proved that she was dead, To the veriest fool's head Of the Booby and the Noddy.

Accordingly, the Stork brought in a bill Quite true enough to kill, And then the Owl was call'd,—for, mark, The Owl can witness in the dark. To make the evidence more plain, The Lynx connected all the chain. In short there was no quirk or quibble At which a legal Rat could nibble; The Culprit was as far beyond hope's bounds. As if the Jury had been packed—of hounds. Reynard, however, at the utmost nick, Is seldom quite devoid of shift and trick; Accordingly our cunning Fox, Through certain influence, obscurely channel'd A friendly Camel got into the box, When 'gainst his life the Jury was impanel'd.

Now, in the Silly Isles such is the law, If Jurors should withdraw, They are to have no eating and no drinking, Till all are starved into one way of thinking. Thus Reynard's Jurors, who could not agree, Were lock'd up strictly, without bit or mummock, Till every Beast that only had one stomach, Bent to the Camel, who was blest with three. To do them justice, they debated From four till ten, while dinner waited, When thirst and hunger got the upper, And each inclin'd to mercy, and hot supper: "Not Guilty" was the word, and Master Fox Was freed to murder other hens and cocks.

MORAL.

What moral greets us by this tale's assistance But that the Solon is a sorry Solon, Who makes the full stop of a Man's existence Depend upon a Colon?



THE POACHER.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

But a bold pheasantry, their country's pride When once destroyed can never be supplied. GOLDSMITH.

Bill Blossom was a nice young man, And drove the Bury coach; But bad companions were his bane, And egg'd him on to poach.

They taught him how to net the birds, And how to noose the hare; And with a wiry terrier, He often set a snare.

Each "shiny night" the moon was bright, To park, preserve, and wood He went, and kept the game alive, By killing all he could.

Land-owners, who had rabbits, swore That he had this demerit— Give him an inch of warren, he Would take a yard of ferret.

At partridges he was not nice; And many, large and small, Without Hall's powder, without lead, Were sent to Leaden Hall.

He did not fear to take a deer From forest, park, or lawn; And without courting lord or duke, Used frequently to fawn.

Folks who had hares discovered snares— His course they could not stop: No barber he, and yet he made Their hares a perfect crop.

To pheasant he was such a foe, He tried the keepers' nerves; They swore he never seem'd to have Jam satis of preserves.

The Shooter went to beat, and found No sporting worth a pin, Unless he tried the covers made Of silver, plate, or tin.

In Kent the game was little worth, In Surrey not a button; The Speaker said he often tried The Manors about Button.

No county from his tricks was safe; In each he tried his lucks, And when the keepers were in Beds, He often was at Bucks.

And when he went to Bucks, alas! They always came to Herts; And even Oxon used to wish That he had his deserts.

But going to his usual Hants, Old Cheshire laid his plots: He got entrapp'd by legal Berks, And lost his life in Notts.



A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado, And many a sigh and groan, Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If I shall find him here? I'm come to weep upon his corse, My Ninety-Second dear!

"Into our town a sergeant came, With ribands all so fine, A-flaunting in his cap—alas! His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes, And stand as stiff as starch; I thought that it was love and May, But it was love and March!

"A sorry March indeed to leave The friends he might have kep',— No March of Intellect it was, But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel, If hereabout he lies? I want a corpse with reddish hair, And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel Appear'd to deeply strike:— "Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like."

And soon she picked out Peter Stone, Half turned into a corse; A cannon was his bolster, and His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, Lord, here has been a skrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast That used to hold my image?"

"O Patty Head, O Patty Head, You're come to my last kissing; Before I'm set in the Gazette As wounded, dead, and missing!

"Alas! a splinter of a shell Right in my stomach sticks; French mortars don't agree so well With stomachs as French bricks.

"This very night a merry dance At Brussels was to be;— Instead of opening a ball, A ball has open'd me.

"Its billet every bullet has, And well it does fulfil it;— I wish mine hadn't come so straight. But been a 'crooked billet.'

"And then there came a cuirassier And cut me on the chest;— He had no pity in his heart, For he had steel'd his breast.

"Next thing a lancer, with his lance, Began to thrust away; I call'd for quarter, but, alas! It was not Quarter-day.

"He ran his spear right through my arm, Just here above the joint;— O Patty dear, it was no joke, Although it had a point.

"With loss of blood I fainted off, As dead as women do— But soon by charging over me, The Coldstream brought me to.

"With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, I throb and ache all over; I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars Is not a field of clover!

"O why did I a soldier turn For any royal Guelph? I might have been a Butcher, and In business for myself!

"O why did I the bounty take? (And here he gasp'd for breath) My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd Upon the door of death!

"Without a coffin I shall lie And sleep my sleep eternal: Not ev'n a shell—my only chance Of being made a Kernel!

"O Patty dear, our wedding bells Will never ring at Chester! Here I must lie in Honor's bed, That isn't worth a tester!

"Farewell, my regimental mates, With whom I used to dress! My corps is changed, and I am now In quite another mess.

"Farewell, my Patty dear, I have No dying consolations, Except, when I am dead, you'll go And see th' Illuminations."



A LAY OF REAL LIFE

"Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle." GOLDSMITH.

"Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and with silver ones." SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse. And physicked me and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer? My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me "ugly little sin?" My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home—and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk? My Aunt.

Who "of all earthly things" would boast, "He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post? My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore? My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside, Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys And when I played cried "What a noise?"— Girls always hector over boys— My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother.

Who stroked my head, and said "Good lad," And gave me sixpence, "all he had"; But at the stall the coin was bad? My Godfather.

Who, gratis, shared, my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump? Alas! My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathized with grief, Or shared my joy—my sole relief? Myself.



THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.

"I like to meet a sweep—such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow." —ESSAYS OF ELIA.

——"A voice cried Sweep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sweep." SHAKSPEARE.

One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betray'd internal woe. To cry amain he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped—but not a crow! I watched him and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I, the cause he will betray— And thus at last he did.

Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging! But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum. But they can't undo natur—as sure as ever the morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep! For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings? I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing. Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks—to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses. Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother. They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows? Do we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon? But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves! Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations! And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.



THE DESERT-BORN[34]

"Fly to the desert, fly with me."—LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

[Footnote 34: For the purposes of his pun on "night-mare," Hood adroitly utilizes the story of the famous Lady Hester Stanhope, whom Kinglake, in his Eothen, first made familiar to so many of us. He there speaks of the "quiet women in Somersetshire," and their surprise when they learned that "the intrepid girl who used to break their vicious horses for them" was reigning over the wandering tribes of Western Asia!]

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its barren hills,— To think upon it, even now, my very blood it chills!— My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil in my hand, I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumultuous sand, The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars tall and proud,— When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like a cloud, And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the scene, Methought I stood in presence of some oriental queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven snow; A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow below, And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either jewell'd ear; In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long cachemere; Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a turkish robe of silk Enveloped her in drapery the color of new milk; Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing underneath A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a broider'd wreath, Compelled by clasps of costly pearls around her neck to meet— And yellow as the amber were the buskins on her feet! Of course I bowed my lowest bow—of all the things on earth, The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or ancient birth, To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to anything uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a Woman! Yet some strange influence stronger still, though vague and undefin'd, Compell'd me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind; There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh, Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman's eye! With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land, I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand; And then I touched her garment's hem, devoutly as a Dervise, Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face, She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race; "Welcome!" she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet; "It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet! Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars, This interview was promis'd in the language of the stars!" Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands, A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o'er the sands, Nor rein'd they up their foaming steeds till in my very face They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race. "Fear nought," exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof, "Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse's hoof! Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth, And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth." Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near, She cried, "Go bring the BEAUTIFUL—for lo! the MAN is here!"

Off went th' obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee, But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free, And brought me back, for love's attack, some fair Circassian bride, Or Georgian girl, the Harem's boast, and fit for sultan's side; Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath, Mild as gazelle's, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth, A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste. Methought—but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight, Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white! To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse, The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse: Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat, Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat, I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux's giant steeds Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland's shaggy breeds;— As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero, Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs, Tempestuous tail—to picture him description vainly begs! His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath— Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death? Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied: "Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!"

Grim was the smile, and tremulous the voice with which I spoke, Like any one's when jesting with a subject not a joke, So men have trifled with the axe before the fatal stroke.

"Lady, if mine had been the luck in Yorkshire to be born, Or any of its ridings, this would be a blessed morn; But, hapless one! I cannot ride—there's something in a horse That I can always honor, but I never could endorse— To speak still more commercially, in riding I am quite Averse to running long, and apt to be paid off at sight: In legal phrase, for every class to understand me still, I never was in stirrups yet a tenant but at will; Or, if you please, in artist terms, I never went a-straddle On any horse without 'a want of keeping' in the saddle. In short," and here I blush'd, abash'd and held my head full low, "I'm one of those whose infant ears have heard the chimes of Bow!"

The lady smiled, as houris smile, adown from Turkish skies, And beams of cruel kindness shone within her hazel eyes; "Stranger," she said, "or rather say, my nearest, dearest friend, There's something in your eyes, your air, and that high instep's bend, That tells me you're of Arab race,—whatever spot of earth, Cheapside, or Bow, or Stepney, had the honor of your birth, The East it is your country! Like an infant changed to nurse By fairies, you have undergone a nurtureship perverse; But this—these desert sands—these palms, and cedars waving wild, All, all, adopt thee as their own—an oriental child— The cloud may hide the sun awhile—but soon or late, no doubt, The spirit of your ancestry will burst and sparkle out! I read the starry characters—and lo! 'tis written there, Thou wert foredoom'd of sons of men to ride upon this Mare, A Mare till now was never back'd by one of mortal mould, Hark, how she neighs, as if for thee she knew that she was foal'd!"

And truly—I devoutly wish'd a blast of the simoom Had stifled her!—the Mare herself appeared to mock my doom; With many a bound she caper'd round and round me like a dance, I feared indeed some wild caress would end the fearful prance, And felt myself, and saw myself—the phantasy was horrid!— Like old Redgauntlet, with a shoe imprinted on my forehead! On bended knees, with bowing head, and hands uprais'd in pray'r, I begg'd the turban'd Sultaness the issue to forbear; I painted weeping orphan babes, around a widow'd wife, And drew my death as vividly as others draw from life; "Behold," I said, "a simple man, for such high feats unfit, Who never yet has learn'd to know the crupper from the bit, Whereas the boldest horsemanship, and first equestrian skill, Would well be task'd to bend so wild a creature to the will." Alas! alas! 'twas all in vain, to supplicate and kneel, The quadruped could not have been more cold to my appeal! "Fear nothing," said the smiling Fate, "when human help is vain, Spirits shall by thy stirrups fly, and fairies guide the rein; Just glance at yonder animal, her perfect shape remark, And in thy breast at once shall glow the oriental spark! As for thy spouse and tender babes, no Arab roams the wild But for a mare of such descent, would barter wife and child."

"Nay then," cried I—(heav'n shrive the lie!) "to tell the secret truth, 'Twas my unhappy fortune once to over-ride a youth! A playful child,—so full of life!—a little fair-haired boy, His sister's pet, his father's hope, his mother's darling joy! Ah me! the frantic shriek she gave! I hear it ringing now! That hour, upon the bloody spot, I made a holy vow; A solemn compact, deeply sworn, to witness my remorse, That never more these limbs of mine should mount on living horse!" Good Heav'n! to see the angry glance that flashed upon me now! A chill ran all my marrow through—the drops were on my brow! I knew my doom, and stole a glance at that accursed Mare, And there she stood, with nostrils wide, that snuff'd the sultry air. How lion-like she lash'd her flanks with her abundant tail; While on her neck the stormy mane kept tossing to the gale! How fearfully she roll'd her eyes between the earth and sky, As if in wild uncertainty to gallop or to fly! While with her hoof she scoop'd the sand as if before she gave My plunge into eternity she meant to dig my grave!

And I, that ne'er could calmly hear a horse's ears at play— Or hear without a yard of jump his shrill and sudden neigh— Whose foot within a stable-door had never stood an inch— Whose hand to pat a living steed would feel an awful flinch,— I that had never thrown a leg across a pony small, To scour the pathless desert on the tallest of the tall! For oh! it is no fable, but at ev'ry look I cast, Her restless legs seem'd twice as long as when I saw them last! In agony I shook,—and yet, although congealed by fears, My blood was boiling fast, to judge from noises in my ears; I gasp'd as if in vacuo, and thrilling with despair, Some secret Demon seem'd to pass his fingers through my hair.

I could not stir—I could not speak—I could not even see— A sudden mist rose up between that awful Mare and me, I tried to pray, but found no words—tho' ready ripe to weep, No tear would flow,—o'er ev'ry sense a swoon began to creep,— When lo! to bring my horrid fate at once unto the brunt, Two Arabs seized me from behind, two others in the front, And ere a muscle could be strung to try the strife forlorn, I found myself, Mazeppa-like, upon the Desert-Born!

Terrific was the neigh she gave, the moment that my weight Was felt upon my back, as if exulting in her freight; Whilst dolefully I heard a voice that set each nerve ajar,— "Off with the bridle—quick!—and leave his guidance to his star!"

"Allah! il Allah!" rose the shout,—and starting with a bound, The dreadful Creature cleared at once a dozen yards of ground; And grasping at her mane with both my cold convulsive hands, Away we flew—away! away! across the shifting sands! My eyes were closed in utter dread of such a fearful race, But yet by certain signs I knew we went no earthly pace, For turn whichever way we might, the wind with equal force Rush'd like a horrid hurricane still adverse to our course— One moment close at hand I heard the roaring Syrian Sea, The next is only murmur'd like the humming of a bee! And when I dared at last to glance across the wild immense, Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon twain, A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain! What tongue could tell,—what pencil paint,—what pen describe the ride? Now off—now on—now up—now down,—and flung from side to side! I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its tone— My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden groan— My joints were racked—my back was strained, so firmly I had clung— My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue— When lo!—farewell all hope of life!—she turn'd and faced the rocks, None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks! So thought I,—but I little knew the desert pride and fire, Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire; Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone, Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone;— Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength— My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death! She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath; Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring, I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing— But oh! the crash!—the hideous shock!—the million sparks around! Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth, One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

* * * * *

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense, And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense; For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone, The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own. My heart was still—my pulses stopp'd—midway 'twixt life and death, With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath, Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh, Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die. Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn, Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn! I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife— A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life— But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast? Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.



AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning—service done— 'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun, A knot of bumpkins stood to chat Of that and this, and this and that; What people said of Polly Hatch— Which side had won the-cricket match; And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;— How barley, beans, and 'taters sold— What men could swallow at a meal— When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal— And who was taken off to jail— And where they brew'd the strongest ale— At last this question they address, "What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine, It be the fancy farming line, Like yonder gemman,—him I mean, As took the Willa nigh the Green,— And turn'd his cattle in the wheat; And gave his porkers hay to eat; And sent his footman up to town, To ax the Lonnon gentry down, To be so kind as make his hay, Exactly on St. Swithin's day;— With consequences you may guess— That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog; But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye, As if he twigg'd the reason why, And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance, He didn't give the noose a chance; So Master Blogg at last lays off, And shams a rattle at the trough, When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg, And flops him down in all the muck, As hadn't been swept up by luck— Now that, accordin' to my guess, Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat; I'ze bring a worser case nor that!" "Last Friday week, I takes a start To Reading, with our horse and cart; Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down, I meets a crony at the Crown; And what betwixt the ale and Tom, It's dark afore I starts for home; So whipping hard, by long and late, At last we reaches nigh the gate, And, sure enough, there Master stand, A lantern flaring in his hand,— 'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear? Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear! He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!' There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB.

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap! A-gooing through the yard, poor chap, Only to fetch his milking-pails, When up he shies like head or tails; Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be, Till he had toss'd the best o' three;— And there lies Tom with broken bones, A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones; Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law, 'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,— Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case, For that will keep the ribs in place;' But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw, Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw? That's summut to the pint—yes, yes, That's Hagricultural Distress!"

SIMON.

"Well, turn and turn about is fair: Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare; But nothing to my load of hay— You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day, And cash was wanted for the rent; So up to Lonnon I was sent, To sell as prime a load of hay, As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road, A chap comes up to buy my load, And looks, and looks about the cart, Pretending to be 'cute and smart; But no great judge, as people say, 'Cause why? he never smelt the hay. Thinks I, as he's a simple chap, He'll give a simple price mayhap, Such buyers comes but now and then, So slap I axes nine pun' ten. 'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick He taps his leathers with his stick. 'Suppose,' says he, 'we wet our clay, Just while we bargin 'bout the hay. So in we goes, my chap and me; He drinks to I, and I to he; At last, says I, a little gay, 'It's time to talk about that hay,' 'Nine pund,' says he, 'and I'm your man, Live, and let live—for that's my plan.' 'That's true,' says I, 'but still I say, It's nine pun' ten for that 'ere hay,' And so we chaffers for a bit, At long and last the odds we split; And off he sets to show the way, Where up a yard I leaves the hay. Then, from the pocket of his coat, He pulls a book, and picks a note. 'That's Ten,' says he—'I hope to pay Tens upon tens for loads of hay.' 'With all my heart, and soon,' says I, And feeling for the change thereby; But all my shillings com'd to five— Says he, 'No matter, man alive! There's something in your honest phiz I'd trust, if twice the sum it is;— You'll pay next time you come to town.' 'As sure,' says I, 'as corn is brown.' 'All right,' says he.—Thinks I 'huzza! He's got no bargain of the hay!'

"Well, home I goes, with empty cart, Whipping the horses pretty smart, And whistling ev'ry yard o' way, To think how well I'd sold the hay— And just cotch'd Master at his greens And bacon, or it might be beans, Which didn't taste the worse surely, To hear his hay had gone so high. But lord! when I laid down the note, It stuck the victuals in his throat, And chok'd him till his face all grew Like pickling-cabbage, red and blue; With such big goggle eyes, Ods nails! They seem'd a-coming out like snails! 'A note,' says he, half mad with passion, 'Why, thou dom'd fool! thou'st took a flash 'un!' Now, wasn't that a pretty mess? That's Hagricultural Distress."

COLIN.

"Phoo! phoo! You're nothing near the thing! You only argy in a ring; 'Cause why? You never cares to look, Like me, in any larned book; But schollards know the wrong and right Of every thing in black and white.

"Well, Farming, that's its common name, And Agriculture be the same: So put your Farming first, and next Distress, and there you have your text. But here the question comes to press, What farming be, and what's distress? Why, farming is to plough and sow, Weed, harrow, harvest, reap, and mow, Thrash, winnow, sell,—and buy and breed The proper stock to fat and feed. Distress is want, and pain, and grief, And sickness,—things as wants relief; Thirst, hunger, age, and cold severe; In short, ax any overseer,— Well, now, the logic for to chop, Where's the distress about a crop?"

"There's no distress in keeping sheep, I likes to see 'em frisk and leap; There's no distress in seeing swine Grow up to pork and bacon fine; There's no distress in growing wheat And grass for men or beasts to eat; And making of lean cattle fat, There's no distress, of course, in that. Then what remains?—But one thing more, And that's the Farming of the Poor!"

HODGE, DICKON, GILES, HOB, AND SIMON.

"Yea!—aye!—surely!—for sartin!—yes!— That's Hagricultural Distress!"



DOMESTIC POEMS.

"It's hame, hame, hame."—A. CUNNINGHAM. "There's no place like home."—CLARI.

I. HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife! When I look back at Hymen's dear day, Not a lovelier bride ever chang'd to a wife, Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate! But as liquid as stars in a pool; Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate, Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair; Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now, As if time, when those furrows were made by the share, Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose, When a Venus demanded their skill; Though now it can hardly be reckon'd a nose, But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees, Such a nectar there hung on each lip; Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze, Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favorite haunts, From its dimple he could not get loose; Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants, Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full, With their ringlets of auburn so deep! Though now they look only like frizzles of wool, By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace, While in whiteness it vied with your arms; Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place, To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight, Though it now has two twists from upright— But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate! Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West. My daily labors past; On Anna's soft and gentle breast My head reclined at last;— The darkness clos'd around, so dear To fond congenial souls, And thus she murmur'd at my ear, "My love, we're out of coals!"

"That Mister Bond has call'd again, Insisting on his rent; And all the Todds are coming up To see us, out of Kent;— I quite forgot to tell you John Has had a tipsy fall;— I'm sure there's something going on With that vile Mary Hall!—"

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk, And I have bought the rest— Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best.— I really think the Jones's house Would be the thing for us;— I think I told you Mrs. Pope Had parted with her nus—

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day, To bid me suit myself— And what d'ye think? the rats have gnawed The victuals on the shelf.— And, lord! there's such a letter come, Inviting you to fight! Of course you don't intend to go— God bless you, dear, good night!"

III. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,—first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin— (Good heav'ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air— (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub—but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life— (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball—bestride the stick— (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,— (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,— (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

IV. A SERENADE.

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard a father cry, "Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" The brat will never shut an eye; Hither come, some power divine! Close his lids, or open mine!

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! What the devil makes him cry? Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Still he stares—I wonder why, Why are not the sons of earth Blind, like puppies, from the birth?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!" Thus I heard the father cry; "Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Mary, you must come and try!— Hush, oh, hush, for mercy's sake— The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Fie, you little creature, fie! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Is no poppy-syrup nigh? Give him some, or give him all, I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Two such nights, and I shall die! Lullaby, oh, lullaby! He'll be bruised, and so shall I,—" "How can I from bedposts keep, When I'm walking in my sleep?"

"Lullaby, oh, lullaby! Sleep his very looks deny— Lullaby, oh, lullaby; Nature soon will stupefy— My nerves relax,—my eyes grow dim— Who's that fallen—me or him?"



THE GREEN MAN.

Tom Simpson was as nice a kind of man As ever lived—at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor, At fifty pounds,—or thereabouts,—per ann. The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter,— He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgers— Or play French horns like Mr. Rogers— Or talk his flirting nonsense to her daughter.— Not that the girl was light behaved or courtable— Still on one failing tenderly to touch, The Gentleman did like a drop too much, (Tho' there are many such) And took more Port than was exactly portable. In fact,—to put the cap upon the nipple, And try the charge,—Tom certainly did tipple. He thought the motto was but sorry stuff On Cribb's Prize Cup—Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter— That "D——d be he who first cries Hold Enough!" The more cups hold, and if enough, the better. And so to set example in the eyes Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them, All his cups were of such ample size That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates, In spite of Temperance's if's and buts, So sure as Eating is set off with plates, His Drinking always was bound up with cuts! Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels Bring very sad catastrophes about; Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils, Not to forget the Gout. Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim To grow to Strasburg's regulation size, As if for those hepatical goose pies— Or out of depth the head begins to swim— Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him! 'Twas Christmas—he had drunk the night before,— Like Baxter, who so "went beyond his last"— One bottle more, and then one bottle more, Till oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass'd! And homeward, by the short small chimes of day, With many a circumbendibus to spare, For instance, twice round Finsbury Square, To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves—(and sparrows)—in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup: The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions, A sort of wavering, just like the ocean's, Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up— An awkward circumstance enough for elves Who shave themselves; And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it, When lo! the first short glimpse within the glass— He jump'd—and who alive would fail to do it?— To see however it had come to pass, One section of his face as green as grass! In vain each eager wipe, With soap—without—wet—hot or cold—or dry, Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe! Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down, Quaking, and quite absorb'd in a deep study,— But verdant and not brown,— What could have happened to a tint so ruddy?

Indeed it was a very novel case, By way of penalty for being jolly, To have that evergreen stuck in his face, Just like the windows with their Christmas holly.

"All claret marks,"—thought he—Tom knew his forte— "Are red—this color CANNOT come from Port!"

One thing was plain; with such a face as his, 'Twas quite impossible to ever greet Good Mrs. Brown; nay, any party meet, Altho' 'twas such a parti-colored phiz! As for the public, fancy Sarcy Ned, The coachman, flying, dog-like, at his head, With "Ax your pardon, Sir, but if you please— Unless it comes too high— Vere ought a feller, now, to go to buy The t'other half, Sir, of that 'ere green cheese?" His mind recoil'd—so he tied up his head, As with a raging tooth, and took to bed; Of course with feelings far from the serene, For all his future prospects seemed to be, To match his customary tea, Black, mixt with green.

Meanwhile, good Mrs. Brown Wondered at Mr. S. not coming down, And sent the maid up-stairs to learn the why; To whom poor Simpson, half delirious, Returned an answer so mysterious That curiosity began to fry; The more, as Betty, who had caught a snatch By peeping in upon the patient's bed, Reported a most bloody, tied-up head, Got over-night of course—"Harm watch, harm catch," From Watchmen in a boxing-match.

So, liberty or not,— Good lodgers are too scarce to let them off in A suicidal coffin— The dame ran up as fast as she could trot; Appearance,—"fiddle-sticks!" should not deter From going to the bed, And looking at the head: "La! Mister S——, he need not care for her! A married woman that had had Nine boys and gals, and none had turned out bad— Her own dear late would come home late at night, And liquor always got him in a fight. She'd been in hospitals—she wouldn't faint At gores and gashes fingers wide and deep; She knew what's good for bruises and what ain't— Turlington's Drops she made a pint to keep. Cases she'd seen beneath the surgent's hand— Such skulls japann'd—she meant to say trepann'd! Poor wretches! you would think they'd been in battle, And hadn't hours to live, From tearing horses' kicks or Smithfield cattle, Shamefully over-driv!— Heads forced to have a silver plate atop, To get the brains to stop. At imputations of the legs she'd been, And neither screech'd nor cried—" Hereat she pluck'd the white cravat aside, And lo! the whole phenomenon was seen— "Preserve us all! He's going to gangrene!"

Alas! through Simpson's brain Shot the remark, like ball, with mortal pain; It tallied truly with his own misgiving, And brought a groan, To move a heart of stone— A sort of farewell to the land of living! And as the case was imminent and urgent, He did not make a shadow of objection To Mrs. B.'s proposal for a "surgent," But merely gave a sigh of deep dejection, While down the verdant cheek a tear of grief Stole, like a dew-drop on a cabbage-leaf.

Swift flew the summons,—it was life or death! And in as short a time as he could race it, Came Doctor Puddicome, as short of breath, To try his Latin charms against Hic Jacet. He took a seat beside the patient's bed, Saw tongue—felt pulse—examined the bad cheek,— Poked, strok'd, pinch'd, kneaded it—hemm'd— shook his head— Took a long solemn pause the cause to seek, (Thinking, it seem'd in Greek,) Then ask'd—'twas Christmas—"Had he eaten grass, Or greens—and if the cook was so improper To boil them up with copper, Or farthings made of brass; Or if he drank his Hock from dark green glass, Or dined at City Festivals, whereat There's turtle, and green fat?" To all of which, with serious tone of woe, Poor Simpson answered "No," Indeed he might have said in form auricular, Supposing Puddicome had been a monk— He had not eaten (he had only drunk) Of anything "Particular." The Doctor was at fault; A thing so new quite brought him to a halt. Cases of other colors came in crowds, He could have found their remedy, and soon; But green—it sent him up among the clouds, As if he had gone up with Green's balloon!

Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin; From Yellow Jaundice yellow, From saffron tints to sallow;— Then retrospective memory lugg'd in Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town— East Indians, without number, He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown, From tan to a burnt umber, Ev'n those eruptions he had never seen Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke, As "rashes growing green"— "Phoo! phoo! a rash grow green! Nothing of course, but a broad Scottish joke!" Then as to flaming visages, for those The Scarlet Fever answer'd, or the Rose— But verdant! that was quite a novel stroke! Men turn'd to blue, by Cholera's last stage, In common practice he had really seen; But Green—he was too old, and grave, and sage, To think of the last stage to Turnham Green!

So matters stood in-doors—meanwhile without, Growing in going like all other rumors, The modern miracle was buzz'd about, By people of all humors, Native or foreign in their dialecticals; Till all the neighborhood, as if their noses Had taken the odd gross from little Moses, Seemed looking thro' green spectacles. "Green faces!" so they all began to comment— "Yes—opposite to Druggists' lighted shops, But that's a flying color—never stops— A bottle-green that's vanish'd in a moment. Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind, Nothing at all to match the present piece; Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind— Green-grocers are not green—nor yet green geese!" The oldest Supercargoes or Old Sailors Of such a case had never heard, From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd; "Or Greenland!" cried the whalers. All tongues were full of the Green Man, and still They could not make him out with all their skill; No soul could shape the matter, head or tail— But Truth steps in where all conjectures fail.

A long half hour, in needless puzzle, Our Galen's cane had rubbed against his muzzle; He thought, and thought, and thought and thought, and thought— And still it came to nought, When up rush'd Betty, loudest of Town Criers, "Lord, Ma'am, the new Police is at the door! It's B, ma'am, Twenty-four,— As brought home Mister S. to Austin Friars, And says there's nothing but a simple case— He got that 'ere green face By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer's!"



HIT OR MISS.

"Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time."—BURNS.

One morn—it was the very morn September's sportive month was born— The hour, about the sunrise, early; The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly, With sundry orange streaks and tinges Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges: The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool, As if just skimm'd from off a pool; The scene, red, russet, yellow, laden, From stubble, fern, and leaves that deaden, Save here and there a turnip patch, Too verdant with the rest to match; And far a-field a hazy figure, Some roaming lover of the trigger. Meanwhile the level light perchance Pick'd out his barrel with a glance; For all around a distant popping Told birds were flying off or dropping. Such was the morn—a morn right fair To seek for covey or for hare— When, lo! too far from human feet For even Ranger's boldest beat, A Dog, as in some doggish trouble, Came cant'ring through the crispy stubble, With dappled head in lowly droop, But not the scientific stoop; And flagging, dull, desponding ears, As if they had been soak'd in tears, And not the beaded dew that hung The filmy stalks and weeds among.

His pace, indeed, seem'd not to know An errand, why, or where to go, To trot, to walk, or scamper swift— In short, he seem'd a dog adrift; His very tail, a listless thing, With just an accidental swing, Like rudder to the ripple veering, When nobody on board is steering.

So, dull and moody, canter'd on Our vagrant pointer, christen'd Don; When, rising o'er a gentle slope, That gave his view a better scope, He spied, some dozen furrows distant, But in a spot as inconsistent, A second dog across his track, Without a master to his back; As if for wages, workman-like, The sporting breed had made a strike, Resolv'd nor birds nor puss to seek, Without another paunch a week!

This other was a truant curly, But, for a spaniel, wondrous surely; Instead of curvets gay and brisk, He slouch'd along without a frisk, With dogged air, as if he had A good half mind to running mad; Mayhap the shaking at his ear Had been a quaver too severe; Mayhap the whip's "exclusive dealing" Had too much hurt e'en spaniel feeling, Nor if he had been cut, 'twas plain He did not mean to come again.

Of course the pair soon spied each other; But neither seem'd to own a brother; The course on both sides took a curve, As dogs when shy are apt to swerve; But each o'er back and shoulder throwing A look to watch the other's going, Till, having clear'd sufficient ground, With one accord they turn'd them round, And squatting down, for forms not caring, At one another fell to staring; As if not proof against a touch Of what plagues humankind so much, A prying itch to get at notions Of all their neighbor's looks and motions. Sir Don at length was first to rise— The better dog in point of size, And, snuffing all the ground between, Set off, with easy jaunty mien; While Dash, the stranger, rose to greet him, And made a dozen steps to meet him— Their noses touch'd, and rubb'd awhile (Some savage nations use the style), And then their tails a wag began, Though on a very cautious plan, But in their signals quantum suff. To say, "A civil dog enough."

Thus having held out olive branches, They sank again, though not on haunches, But couchant, with their under jaws Resting between the two forepaws, The prelude, on a luckier day, Or sequel, to a game of play: But now they were in dumps, and thus Began their worries to discuss, The Pointer, coming to the point The first, on times so out of joint.

"Well, Friend,—so here's a new September, As fine a first as I remember; And, thanks to such an early Spring, Plenty of birds, and strong on wing."

"Birds!" cried the little crusty chap, As sharp and sudden as a snap, "A weasel suck them in the shell! What matter birds, or flying well, Or fly at all, or sporting weather, If fools with guns can't hit a feather!"

"Ay, there's the rub, indeed,'" said Don, Putting his gravest visage on; "In vain we beat our beaten way, And bring our organs into play, Unless the proper killing kind Of barrel tunes are play'd behind: But when we shoot,—that's me and Squire— We hit as often as we fire."

"More luck for you!" cried little Woolly, Who felt the cruel contrast fully; "More luck for you, and Squire to boot! We miss as often as we shoot!"

"Indeed!—No wonder you're unhappy! I thought you looking rather snappy; But fancied, when I saw you jogging, You'd had an overdose of flogging; Or p'rhaps the gun its range had tried While you were ranging rather wide."

"Me! running—running wide—and hit! Me shot! what, pepper'd?—Deuce a bit! I almost wish I had! That Dunce, My master, then would hit for once! Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds! He couldn't hit a pack of hounds!"

"Well, that must be a case provoking. What, never—but, you dog, you're joking! I see a sort of wicked grin About your jaw you're keeping in."

"A joke! an old tin kettle's clatter Would be as much a joking matter. To tell the truth, that dog-disaster Is just the type of me and master, When fagging over hill and dale, With his vain rattle at my tail, Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day's run, But leading nothing but his gun— The very shot I fancy hisses, It's sent upon such awful misses!"

"Of course it does! But p'rhaps the fact is Your master's hand is out of practice!"

"Practice?—No doctor, where you will, Has finer—but he cannot kill! These three years past, thro' furze and furrow, All covers I have hunted thorough; Flush'd cocks and snipes about the moors; And put up hares by scores and scores; Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;— Yes, game enough to send in presents To ev'ry friend he has in town, Provided he had knock'd it down: But no—the whole three years together, He has not giv'n me flick or feather— For all that I have had to do I wish I had been missing too!"

"Well,—such a hand would drive me mad; But is he truly quite so bad?"

"Bad!—worse!—you cannot underssore him; If I could put up, just before him, The great Balloon that paid the visit Across the water, he would miss it! Bite him! I do believe, indeed, It's in his very blood and breed! It marks his life, and, run all through it; What can be miss'd, he's sure to do it. Last Monday he came home to Tooting, Dog-tir'd, as if he'd been a-shooting, And kicks at me to vent his rage— 'Get out!' says he—'I've miss'd the stage!' Of course, thought I—what chance of hitting? You'd miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!"

"Why, he must be the country's scoff! He ought to leave, and not let, off! As fate denies his shooting wishes, Why don't he take to catching fishes? Or any other sporting game, That don't require a bit of aim?"

"Not he!—Some dogs of human kind Will hunt by sight, because they're blind. My master angle!—no such luck! There he might strike, who never struck! My master shoots because he can't, And has an eye that aims aslant; Nay, just by way of making trouble, He's changed his single gun for double; And now, as girls a-walking do, His misses go by two and two! I wish he had the mange, or reason As good, to miss the shooting season!"

"Why yes, it must be main upleasant To point to covey, or to pheasant, For snobs, who, when the point is mooting, Think letting fly as good as shooting!"

"Snobs!—if he'd wear his ruffled shirts, Or coats with water-wagtail skirts, Or trowsers in the place of smalls, Or those tight fits he wears at balls, Or pumps, and boots with tops, mayhap, Why we might pass for Snip and Snap, And shoot like blazes! fly or sit, And none would stare, unless we hit. But no—to make the more combustion, He goes in gaiters and in fustian, Like Captain Ross, or Topping Sparks, And deuce a miss but some one marks! For Keepers, shy of such encroachers, Dog us about like common poachers! Many's the covey I've gone by, When underneath a sporting eye; Many a puss I've twigg'd, and pass'd her— I miss 'em to prevent my master!"

"And so should I, in such a case! There's nothing feels so like disgrace, Or gives you such a scurvy look— A kick and pail of slush from Cook, Clefsticks, or Kettle, all in one, As standing to a missing gun! It's whirr! and bang! and off you bound, To catch your bird before the ground: But no—a pump and ginger pop As soon would get a bird to drop! So there you stand, quite struck a-heap, Till all your tail is gone to sleep; A sort of stiffness in your nape, Holding your head well up to gape; While off go birds across the ridges, First small as flies, and then as midges, Cocksure, as they are living chicks, Death's Door is not at Number Six!"

"Yes! yes! and then you look at master, The cause of all the late disaster, Who gives a stamp, and raps on oath At gun, or birds, or maybe both; P'rhaps curses you, and all your kin, To raise the hair upon your skin! Then loads, rams down, and fits new caps, To go and hunt for more miss-haps!"

"Yes! yes! but, sick and sad, you feel But one long wish to go to heel; You cannot scent for cutting mugs— Your nose is turning up, like Pug's; You can't hold up, but plod and mope; Your tail like sodden end of rope, That o'er a wind-bound vessel's side Has soak'd in harbor, tide and tide. On thorns and scratches, till that moment Unnoticed, you begin to comment; You never felt such bitter brambles, Such heavy soil, in all your rambles! You never felt your fleas so vicious! Till, sick of life so unpropitious, You wish at last, to end the passage, That you were dead, and in your sassage!"

"Yes! that's a miss from end to end! But, zounds! you draw so well, my friend, You've made me shiver, skin and gristle, As if I heard my master's whistle! Though how you came to learn the knack— I thought your Squire was quite a crack!"

"And so he is!—He always hits— And sometimes hard, and all to bits. But ere with him our tongues we task, I've still one little thing to ask; Namely, with such a random master, Of course you sometimes want a plaster? Such missing hands make game of more Than ever pass'd for game before— A pounded pig—a widow's cat— A patent ventilating hat— For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick, Will find a coat whereon to stick!"

"What! accidentals, as they're term'd? No never—none—since I was worm'd— Not e'en the Keeper's fatted calves,— My master does not miss by halves! His shot are like poor orphans, hurl'd Abroad upon the whole wide world,— But whether they be blown to dust, As often-times I think they must, Or melted down too near the sun, What comes of them is known to none— I never found, since I could bark, A Barn that bore my master's mark!"

"Is that the case?—Why then, my brother, Would we could swap with one another! Or take the Squire, with all my heart, Nay, all my liver, so we part! He'll hit you hares—(he uses cartridge) He'll hit you cocks—he'll hit a partridge; He'll hit a snipe; he'll hit a pheasant; He'll hit—he'll hit whatever's present; He'll always hit,—as that's your wish— His pepper never lacks a dish!"

"Come, come, you banter,—let's be serious; I'm sure that I am half delirious, Your picture set me so a-sighing— But does he shot so well—shoot flying?"

"Shoot flying? Yes—and running, walking— I've seen him shoot two farmers talking— He'll hit the game, whene'er he can, But failing that he'll hit a man,— A boy—a horse's tail or head— Or make a pig a pig of lead,— Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet, However hot, was known to sweat, But sure I am that I perspire Sometimes before my master's fire! Misses! no, no, he always hits, But so as puts me into fits! He shot my fellow dog this morning, Which seemed to me sufficient warning!"

"Quite, quite, enough!—So that's a hitter! Why, my own fate I thought was bitter, And full excuse for cut and run; But give me still the missing gun! Or rather, Sirius! send me this, No gun at all, to hit or miss, Since sporting seems to shoot thus double, That right or left it brings us trouble!"

So ended Dash;—and Pointer Don Prepared to urge the moral on; But here a whistle long and shrill Came sounding o'er the council hill, And starting up, as if their tails Had felt the touch of shoes and nails, Away they scamper'd down the slope, As fast as other pairs elope,— Resolv'd, instead of sporting rackets, To beg, or dance in fancy jackets; At butchers' shops to try their luck; To help to draw a cart or truck; Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most Who would but hit or miss a post.



THE FORLORN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.[35]

[Footnote 35: This dates from the old days of transportation and Botany Bay. The judge indicated was Mr. Justice Alan Park, of the Common Pleas, and Mr. Cotton was Chaplain of Newgate.]

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, FROM SYDNEY.

"Vell! Here I am—no Matter how it suits A-keeping Company vith them dumb Brutes; Old Park vos no bad Judge—confound his vig! Of vot vood break the Sperrit of a Prig!

"The Like of Me, to come to New Sow Wales To go a-tagging arter Vethers' Tails And valk in Herbage as delights the Flock, But stinks of Sweet Herbs vorser nor the Dock!

"To go to set this solitary Job To Von whose Vork vos alvay in a Mob! It's out of all our Lines, for sure I am Jack Shepherd even never kep a Lamb!

"I arn't ashamed to say I sit and veep To think of Seven Year of keepin Sheep, The spooniest Beast in Nater, all to Sticks, And not a Votch to take for all their Ticks!

"If I'd fore-seed how Transports vould turn out To only Baa! and Botanize about, I'd quite as leaf have had the t'other Pull, And come to Cotton, as to all this Vool!

"Von only happy moment I have had Since here I come to be a Farmer's Cad, And then I cotch'd a vild Beast in a Snooze, And pick'd her pouch of three young Kangaroos!

"Vot chance haye I to go to Race or Mill? Or show a sneaking Kindness for a Till; And as for Vashings, on a hedge to dry, I'd put the Natives' Linen in my Eye!

"If this whole Lot of Mutton I could scrag, And find a Fence to turn it into Swag, I'd give it all in London Streets to stand, And if I had my pick, I'd say the Strand!

"But ven I goes, as maybe vonce I shall, To my old Crib to meet with Jack, and Sal, I've been so gallows honest in this Place, I shan't not like to show my sheepish Face.

"It's wery hard for nothing but a Box Of Irish Blackguard to be keepin' Flocks, 'Mong naked Blacks, sich Savages to hus, They've nayther got a Pocket nor a Pus.

"But folks may tell their Troubles till they're sick To dumb brute Beasts,—and so I'll cut my Stick! And vot's the Use a Feller's Eyes to pipe Vere von can't borrow any Gemman's Vipe?"



LIEUTENANT LUFF.

All you that are too fond of wine, Or any other stuff, Take warning by the dismal fate Of one Lieutenant Luff. A sober man he might have been, Except in one regard, He did not like soft water, So he took to drinking hard!

Said he, "Let others fancy slops, And talk in praise of Tea, But I am no Bohemian, So do not like Bohea. If wine's a poison, so is Tea, Though in another shape: What matter whether one is kill'd By canister or grape!"

According to this kind of taste Did he indulge his drouth, And being fond of Port, he made A port-hole of his mouth! A single pint he might have sipp'd And not been out of sorts, In geologic phrase—the rock He split upon was quarts!

To "hold the mirror up to vice" With him was hard, alas! The worse for wine he often was, But not "before a glass." No kind and prudent friend had he To bid him drink no more,— The only chequers in his course Where at a tavern door!

Full soon the sad effects of this His frame began to show, For that old enemy the gout Had taken him in toe! And join'd with this an evil came Of quite another sort— For while he drank, himself, his purse Was getting "something short."

For want of cash he soon had pawn'd One half that he possessed, And drinking showed him duplicates Beforehand of the rest! So now his creditors resolved To seize on his assets; For why,—they found that his half-pay Did not half pay his debts.

But Luff contrived a novel mode His creditors to chouse; For his own execution he Put into his own house! A pistol to the muzzle charged He took devoid of fear; Said he, "This barrel is my last, So now for my last bier!"

Against his lungs he aimed the slugs, And not against his brain, So he blew out his lights—and none Could blow them in again! A Jury for a Verdict met, And gave in it these terms:— "We find as how as certain slugs Has sent him to the worms!"



MORNING MEDITATIONS.

Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy How well to rise while nights and larks are flying— For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime— Only lee long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought, His steeds that paw impatiently about,— Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-finger'd girl; What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs "Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?"

Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"— Well—he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps, that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be "All up—all up!"

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;— A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.



A PLAIN DIRECTION.

"Do you never deviate?" John Bull.

In London once I lost my way In faring to and fro, And ask'd a little ragged boy The way that I should go;

He gave a nod, and then a wink, And told me to get there "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I box'd his little saucy ears, And then away I strode; But since I've found that weary path Is quite a common road.

Utopia is a pleasant place, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a famous town That drove a famous trade, Where Whittington walk'd up and found A fortune ready made.

The very streets are paved with gold; But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a Fairy Land, In some romantic tale, Where Dwarfs if good are sure to thrive And wicked Giants fail.

My wish is great, my shoes are strong, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about some happy Isle, Where ev'ry man is free, And none can lie in bonds for life For want of L. S. D.

Oh that's the land of Liberty! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square,"

I've dreamt about some blessed spot, Beneath the blessed sky, Where Bread and Justice never rise Too dear for folks to buy.

It's cheaper than the Ward of Cheap, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is an ancient House, As pure as it is old, Where Members always speak their minds And votes are never sold.

I'm fond of all antiquities, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Royal Court Maintain'd in noble state, Where ev'ry able man, and good, Is certain to be great!

I'm very fond of seeing sights, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Temple too, Where Christians come to pray; But canting knaves and hypocrites, And bigots keep away.

Oh that's the parish church for me! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

They say there is a Garden fair, That's haunted by the dove, Where love of gold doth ne'er eclipse The golden light of love—

The place must be a Paradise, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a famous Land For public spirit known— Whose Patriots love its interests Much better than their own.

The Land of Promise sure it is! But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've read about a fine Estate, A Mansion large and strong; A view all over Kent and back, And going for a song.

George Robins knows the very spot, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard there is a Company All formal and enroll'd, Will take your smallest silver coin And give it back in gold.

Of course the office door is mobb'd, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."

I've heard about a pleasant Land, Where omelettes grow on trees, And roasted pigs run crying out, "Come eat me, if you please."

My appetite is rather keen, But how shall I get there? "Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square."



THE ASSISTANT DRAPERS' PETITION.[36]

"Now's the time and now's the hour,"—BURNS.

"Seven's the main."—CROCKFORD.

[Footnote 36: The exquisite wit and fancy of these verses need not blind us to their touching earnestness. They might well be printed and circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing. The "Knight" mentioned was, of course, the excellent Charles Knight, pioneer and forerunner of all subsequent movements for cheapening and popularizing good literature.]

Pity the sorrows of a class of men, Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity, No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen, But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.

Oppress'd and discontented with our lot, Amongst the clamorous we take our station; A host of Ribbon Men—yet is there not One piece of Irish in our agitation.

We do revere Her Majesty the Queen, We venerate our Glorious Constitution; We joy King William's advent should have been, And only want a Counter Revolution.

'Tis not Lord Russell and his final measure, 'Tis not Lord Melbourne's counsel to the throne, 'Tis not this Bill, or that, gives us displeasure, The measures we dislike are all our own.

The Cash Law the "Great Western" loves to name; The tone our foreign policy pervading; The Corn Laws—none of these we care to blame, Our evils we refer to over-trading.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn; We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth! We love her ministers—but curse the lawn! We have, alas! too much to do with both!

We love the sex:—to serve them is a bliss! We trust they find us civil, never surly; All that we hope of female friends is this, That their last linen may be wanted early.

Ah! who can tell the miseries of men That serve the very cheapest shops in town? Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten, Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down!

But has not Hamlet his opinion given— O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants! "That custom is"—say custom after seven— "More honor'd in the breach than the observance."

O come then, gentle ladies, come in time, O'erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves; Torment us all until the seventh chime, But let us have the remnant to ourselves!

We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock, And not remain in ignorance incurable;— To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke, And other fabrics that have proved so durable.

We long for thoughts of intellectual kind, And not to go bewilder'd to our beds; With stuff and fustian taking up the mind, And pins and needles running in our heads!

For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry, Selling from morn till night for cash or credit; Or with a vacant face and vacant eye, Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit.

Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme, We often think, when we are dull and vapoury, The bliss of Paradise was so supreme, Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.



THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mix'd, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won, Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

What loving tete-a-tetes to come! But tete-a-tetes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all my ties had leave to jog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll— A monkey too, what work he made! The sister introduced a Beau— My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own, A snappish mongrel christen'd Gog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

The Monkey bit—the Parrot scream'd All day the sister strumm'd and sung; The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learn'd to use her tongue: Her mother had such wretched health, She sate and croak'd like any frog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

No longer Deary, Ducky, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants cross'd my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seem'd my own, I might as well have been a log— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd— She could not bear that Mister Blogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, My Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song— The sister took a sisters part— The Maid declared her Master wrong— The Parrot learn'd to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end— I never had a decent coat— I never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my Club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away, I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug— With Pussy in the elbow-chair And Tray reposing on the rug?— If I must totter down the hill, 'Tis safest done without a clog— What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of that, my Dog?



RURAL FELICITY.

Well, the country's a pleasant place, sure enough, for people that's country born, And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing our grass and our corn. It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write and invite me down, Tho' as yet all I've seen of a pastoral life only makes one more partial to town.

At first I thought I was really come down into all sorts of rural bliss, For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs, and its poultry, looks not much amiss; There's something about a dairy farm, with its different kinds of live stock, That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam and his innocent flock; But somehow the good old Elysium fields have not been well handed down, And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear Leicester Fields up in town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads, and so I should like for miles, If it wasn't for clodpoles of carpenters that put up such crooked stiles; For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till you're almost broken in two, If you clamber you're certain sure of a fall, and you stick if you try to creep through. Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb without constant tumbles down, But still as to walking so stylishly, it's pleasanter done about town. There's a way, I know, to avoid the stiles, and that's by a walk in a lane, And I did find a very nice shady one, but I never dared go again; For who should I meet but a rampaging bull, that wouldn't be kept in the pound, A trying to toss the whole world at once, by sticking his horns in the ground? And that, by the bye, is another thing, that pulls rural pleasures down, Ev'ry day in the country is cattle-day, and there's only two up in town. Then I've rose with the sun, to go brushing away at the first early pearly dew, And to meet Aurory, or whatever's her name, and I always got wetted through; My shoes are like sops, and I caught a bad cold, and a nice draggle-tail to my gown, That's not the way that we bathe our feet, or wear our pearls, up in town! As for picking flow'rs, I have tried at a hedge, sweet eglantine roses to snatch, But, mercy on us! how nettles will sting, and how the long brambles do scratch; Besides hitching my hat on a nasty thorn that tore all the bows from the crown, One may walk long enough without hats branching off, or losing one's bows about town. But worse than that, in a long rural walk, suppose that it blows up for rain, And all at once you discover yourself in a real St. Swithin's Lane; And while you're running all ducked and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops, "Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing show'r for the crops!" But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown? For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.

Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts, And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts. Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,— For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case, Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face.

There's the other day, for my sight is short, and I saw what was green beyond, And thought it was all terry firmer and grass till I walked in the duckweed pond: Or perhaps when I've pully-hauled up a bank they see me come launching down, As none but a stout London female can do as is come a first time out of town. Then how sweet, some say, on a mossy bank a verdurous seat to find, But for my part I always found it a joy that brought a repentance behind; For the juicy grass with its nasty green has stained a whole breadth of my gown— And when gowns are dyed, I needn't say, it's much better done up in town. As for country fare, the first morning I came I heard such a shrill piece of work! And ever since—and it's ten days ago—we've lived upon nothing but pork; One Sunday except, and then I turn'd sick, a plague take all countrified cooks! Why didn't they tell me, before I had dined, they made pigeon pies of the rooks? Then the gooseberry wine, tho' it's pleasant when up, it doesn't agree when it's down, But it served me right like a gooseberry fool to look for champagne out of town! To be sure cousin G. meant it all for the best when he started this pastoral plan, And his wife is a worthy domestical soul and she teaches me all that she can, Such as making of cheese, and curing of hams, but I'm sure that I never shall learn, And I've fetched more back-ache than butter as yet by chumping away at the churn; But in making hay, tho' it's tanning work, I found it more easy to make, But it tries one's legs, and no great relief when you're tired to sit down on the rake. I'd a country dance too at harvest home, with a regular country clown, But, Lord! they don't hug one round the waist and give one such smacks in town! Then I've tried to make friends with the birds and the beasts, but they take to such curious rigs, I'm always at odds with the turkey-cock, and I can't even please the pigs. The very hens pick holes in my hands when I grope for the new-laid eggs, And the gander comes hissing out of the pond on purpose to flap at my legs. I've been bump'd in a ditch by the cow without horns, and the old sow trampled me down, The beasts are as vicious as any wild beasts—but they're kept in cages in town! Another thing is the nasty dogs—thro' the village I hardly can stir Since giving a bumpkin a pint of beer just to call off a barking cur; And now you would swear all the dogs in the place were set on to hunt me down, But neither the brutes nor the people I think are as civilly bred as in town. Last night about twelve I was scared broad awake, and all in a tremble of fright, But instead of a family murder it proved an owl that flies screeching at night. Then there's plenty of ricks and stacks all about, and I can't help dreaming of Swing— In short, I think that a plastoral life is not the most happiest thing; For besides all the troubles I've mentioned before as endur'd for rurality's sake, I've been stung by the bees, and I've set among ants, and once—ugh! I trod on a snake! And as to moskitoes they tortured me so, for I've got a particular skin, I do think it's the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in! And after all an't there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill? And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giles's, and fresh butter wherever you will? And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown? So one isn't so very uncountrified in the very heart of the town. Howsomever my mind's made up, and although I'm sure cousin Giles will be vext, I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next, And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown, And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burnt down!



A FLYING VISIT.

"A Calendar! a Calendar! look in the Almanac, find out moonshine—find out moonshine!"—Midsummer Night's Dream.

I.

The by-gone September, As folks may remember, At least if their memory saves but an ember, One fine afternoon, There went up a Balloon, Which did not return to the Earth very soon.

II.

For, nearing the sky, At about a mile high, The Aeronaut bold had resolved on a fly; So cutting his string, In a Parasol thing Down he came in a field like a lark from the wing.

III.

Meanwhile, thus adrift, The Balloon made a shift To rise very fast, with no burden to lift; It got very small, Then to nothing at all; And then rose the question of where it would fall?

IV.

Some thought that, for lack Of the man and his pack, 'Twould rise to the cherub that watches Poor Jack; Some held, but in vain, With the first heavy rain 'Twould surely come down to the Gardens again!

V.

But still not a word For a month could be heard Of what had become of the Wonderful Bird; The firm Gye and Hughes, Wore their boots out and shoes, In running about and inquiring for news.

VI.

Some thought it must be Tumbled into the Sea; Some thought it had gone off to High Germanie For Germans, as shown By their writings, 'tis known Are always delighted with what is high-flown.