last;

Thus tir'd and weary, I've finished my course, And glad it is bed-time, and things are no worse.

Epitaph on an honest Sailor. WHETHER Sailor or not, for a moment avast! Poor Tom's mizen top-sail is laid to the mast; He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead, He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead; He ever was brisk, and, and though now gone to wreck, [upon deck. When he hears the last whistle he'll jump

The Consultation.

THREE Doctors, met in consultation, Proceed with great deliberation; The case was desperate, all agreed, But what of that? they must be fee'd; They write then, as 'twas fit they should, But for their own, not patient's good; Consulting wisely, don't mistake, Sir, Not what to give, but what to take, Sir.

On a Landlord drunk. LANDLORD, with thee now even is the wine; [thine. For thou hast pierc'd his hogs-head, and he

A Rhapsody.

As I walk'd by myself, I said to myself,
And myself said again to me;
Look to thyself, take care of thyself,
For nobody cares for thee.

Then I said to myself, and thus answer'd myself,
With the self-same repartee;
Look to thyself, or look not to thy thyself,
'Tis the self-same thing to me.

To-day and To-morrow.

TO-DAY man's dress'd in gold and silver
bright,

Wrapp'd in a shroud before to-morrow night;
To-day he's feeding on delicious food,
To-morrow dead, unable to do good;
To-day he's nice, and scorns to feed on crumbs,
To-morrow he's himself a dish for worms;
To-day he's honor'd, and in vast esteem,
To-morrow not a beggar values him;
To-day he rises from the velvet bed,
To-morrow lies in one that's made of lead;
To-day his house, though large, he thinks but
small,

To-morrow, no command, no house at all;
To-day has forty servants at his gate,
To-morrow scorn'd, not one of them will wait;
To-day perfum'd as sweet as any rose,
To-morrow stinks in every body's nose;
To-day he's grand, majestic, all delight,
Ghastful and pale before to-morrow night:
True, as the Scripture says, "man's life's a span,"
The present moment is the life of man.

Free with that, and free with me;
To my best my friends are free;
Free to pass the harmless joke,
And the tube sedately smoke;
Free to drink just what they please,
As at home, and at their ease;
Free to speak, and free to think-
No informers with me drink ;
Free to stay a night, or so;
When uneasy, free to go.

The Character.

AN easy mien, engaging in address, [press, Looks which at once each winning grace exA life where love and truth are ever join'd, A nature ever great and ever kind, A wisdom solid, and a judgement clear, The smile indulgent, and a soul sincere; Meek without meanness, gentle and humane; Fond of improving, but yet never vain; So justly good, so faithful to his friend, Ever obliging, cautious to offend; A mind where gen'rous pity stands confess'd, Ready to ease and succour the distress'd: If these respect and admiration raise, They surely must demand our greatest praise; In one bright view th' accomplish'd youth we see, These virtues all are thine-and thou art he.

Poverty and Poetry.

"Twas sung of old, how one Amphion Could by his verses tame a lion, And by his strange enchanting tunes Make bears and wolves dance rigadoons; His songs could call the timber down, And form it into house or town. But it is plain, now in these times, No house is rais'd by poets' rhymes; They for themselves can only rear A few old castles in the air.

Poor are the Brethren of the Bays, Down from high strains to ekes and ayes: The muses too are virgins yet, And may be till they portions get. Yet still the doating rhymer dreams, And sings of Helicon's bright streams: But Helicon, for all his clatter, Yields nothing but insipid water! Yet, even athirst, he sweetly sings Of Nectar and Elysian springs. The grave physician, who by physic, Like death, dispatches him that is sick, Pursues a sure and thriving trade; Though patients die, the doctor's paid: Licens'd to kill, he gains a palace For what another mounts a gallows.

In shady groves the muses play, And love in flow'ry meads to stray; Pleas'd with a bleaky barren ground, Where rip'ning fruits are never found.

But then, some say, you purchase fame,
And gain a never-dying name;
Great recompense for real trouble,
To be rewarded with a bubble!

Thus soldiers, who in many battles

Get bangs and blows, and God knows what
Are paid with fame and wooden leg,
And gain a pass, with leave to beg.

On Bribery.

A POOR man once a judge besought
To judge aright his cause;
And with a pot of oil salutes

The judger of the laws.

My friend, quoth he, thy cause is good;
He glad away did trudge:
Anon his wealthy foe did come
Before this partial judge.

A hog well-fed this churl presents,
And craves a strain of law;
The hog receiv'd, the poor man's right
Was judg'd not worth a straw.
Therewith he cried, O partial judge,
Thy doom has me undone;
When oil I gave, my cause was good,
But now to ruin run.

Poor man, quoth he, I thee forgot,
And see thy cause of foil;
A hog came since into my house,
And broke thy pot of oil.

[else,

Vain wishes! vain pray'rs! to the wind they are given,

For death comes relentless, and takes him to

heaven.

At little misfortunes we're soberly sad, But it's time, now we've lost all our wits, to run mad.

Magni stat Nominis Umbra. BISHOP. PROUD as a peer, poor as a bard,

A footsome Spaniard late one night
Knock'd at a tavern-door so hard,
It rous'd the family in a fright.

Up sprung the host from his bed-side,

Open the chamber-window flew: "Who's there? What boisterous hand," he "Makes at my gate this loud ado?" [cried, "Here is," the stately Spaniard said, "Don Lopez, Rodriguez, Alonzo, Pedrillo, Gusman, Alvarade, Jago, Miguel, Alphonso,

Antonio, Diego"-" Hold! hold! hold!"
Exclaim'd the landlord,
pray forbear!
For half the numbers you have told,
I have not half a bed to spare."
"Sir!" quoth the Don, "'tis your mistake,
If names for men of course you count :
Though long th' illustrious list I make,
In me still centres all th' amount.
Worn down with tramping many a mile,
Don Lopez, Rodriguez, Pedrillo,
With all the et-ceteras of his style,
Will sleep upon a single pillow."

An authentic receipt from an English_lord's

[spice,

cook ; Mix suet, milk, eggs, sugar, meal, fruit and Of such numbers, such measure, and weight, and such price;

Drop a spoonful of brandy to quicken the mess, And boil it for so many hours, more or less. These directions were tried, but when tried, had no good in,

'Twas all wash, and all squash, but 'twas not English pudding;

And monsieur, in a pet, sent a second request For the cook that prescrib'd, to assist when 'twas drest,

Who, of course, to comply with his honor's beseeching,

Quod petis hic est.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,
Plain folk in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was fill'd each night:
Along whose inner bottom, sketch'd
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby's angel-face.

John swallow'd first a moderate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She swill'd till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,
But she ne'er chang'd a jot;
She lov'd to see the angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;

And where the angel stood so plain,
He got a devil portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd ;
And ever as she seiz'd her ale,
She clear'd it at a drought.
John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,
His hair stood on his pate;
And "Why dost guzzle now," he cried,
"At this enormous rate?"

"Oh! John," she said, “am I to blame? I can't, in conscience, stop:

For sure 'twould be a burning shame
To leave the Devil a drop!"

The Decanter.

O THOU, that high thy head dost bear, With round smooth neck, and simple ear, With well-turn'd narrow mouth, from whence Flow streams of noblest eloquence: 'Tis thou that fir'st the bard divine, Sacred to Phoebus and the nine; That mirth and soft delight canst move Sacred to Venus and to Love; Yet, spite of all thy virtues rare, Thou'rt not a boon companion fair; Thou'rt full of wine when thirsty I, And when I'm drunk, then thou art dry.

Latin Learning of little Use*.

YOUR venerable chaplain once,
(Though now with age he bend)

Train'd here the scholar, lash'd the dunce,
A master and a friend.

To profit by his well-known care,

His child a butcher brought;

And all the needful to prepare,

A dictionary bought.

Before a week its course had run,

The butcher came again: "Take back your book, give back my son," He cried with might and main. "Larning!" 'tis money thrown Such larning to procure; The book don't show, the boy can't say, What's Latin-for a skewer."

away,

More's meant than meets the Ear.

WHEN doctors, twenty years ago,
Wore wigs of venerable flow,

A bodkin-sword's diminutive stump,
Stuck right across each physic rump;
Whose short dimensions seem'd to say,
"Our object is to save, not slay."
An emblem apt enough, I trow:
But wicked wits pretend to show,
For swords so small, an apter still,
"We've other ways than one to kill."

Nothing new under the Sun. THERE's nothing new beneath the sun, So ancient wits' decisions run:

But wit no match for facts is; For I know things, and so do you, Though everlasting, ever new! What think you, Sirs, of taxes?

The Power of Verse.

READ! read! the thread-bare poet cries,
New powers of verse I bring:
At every line new beauties rise
Spontaneous while I sing!

Poet! thy boast would seem more true,
One fact if thou couldst quote;
Had powers and beauties all so new
Procur'd thee-a new coat!

Spoken at Merchant Taylors' School.

The Progress of Wigs.

WHEN Charles the First the sceptre bore,

Each grave divine, I trow,

A silken cap all sable wore,

With nine straight hairs below. The Restoration's jovial day

Chang'd, with the men, the mode,
And orth'dox heads, in broad display,
The flaxen buckle show'd.

In Anna's reign, from general view
Th' enormous flaxens fled:
And lo! perukes of milk-white hue
Succeeded in their stead.

These too incurr'd, by lapse of years,
Disuse, though not disgrace;
New clerical brows requir'd new gears,
And grizzles took their place.
Yet still the wig's full form retain'd
The feather'd foretop's peak:
Yet still the solemn bush remain'd
To flank the rosy cheek.
But now! forgive the conscious muse,
That feels her verse too bold:
What fashions modern reverends use,
You need not here be told.

Though new their taste, while they adopt
Their good forefathers' ways;

The frizz'd, the curl'd, the bald, the cropt, Have all their claim to praise.

The Effect of Pulpit Eloquence.

A VETERAN gambler, in a tempest caught, Once in his life a church's shelter sought, Where many a hint pathetically grave, On life's precarious lot the preacher gave. The sermon ended, and the storm all spent, Home trudg'd old Cog-die, reasoning as he [declar'd, "Strict truth," quoth he, "this rev'rend sage I feel conviction, and will be prepar'd; Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals away, Give credit for a bet-beyond a day!"

went.

Case in the Constitutional Court.

A FARMER, as records report,
Most hugely discontented,
His vicar at the Bishop's Court
For gross neglect presented.
"Our former priest, my Lord," he said,
"Each Sunday the year round,
Some Greek in his discourses read,

And charming was the sound!
Not such our present parson's phrase,
No Greek does he apply;
But says in English all he says,
As you might speak, or I.
And yet for this so simple style,
He claims each tithe and due;
Pigs, pippins, poultry, all the while,
And Easter off'rings too!"