Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gently to amuse,

The priest had order'd peas into their shoes.

A nostrum, famous in old Popish times,
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,

Which Popish parsons for its power exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off the self-same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon-peccavi cried--
Had his soul white-wash'd over all so clever ;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit, with saints above, to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue, about half way-
Hobbling with out-stretch'd bum, and bending knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas;

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now?" the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Odds curse it!" cried the other, "tis no jokeMy feet, once hard as any rock

Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the devil my sinful soul must go,
For dam'me if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.

"But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain;

What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for thy toes: Whilst I just like a snail am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes;
How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

66

you

Merry as if that nought had happened-burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, must know That just before I ventur'd on my journey, To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas."

THE EVERLASTING BREECHES.

IT chanc'd on a time that an Irish dear honey,
Who had just received a small trifle of money:
Took it into his head to dispose of his riches,

In what he much wanted, a good pair of breeches!
In these modish days they've acquir'd a new name,
But breeches or small clothes, why sure, they're the

same!

His purse stuff'd with chink, and his heart full of glee, Pat soon found a shop to his mind, d'ye see? On a prime piece of stuff now his eyes quickly casting, And asking the name, he was told "everlasting!" "If it be everlasting," quoth Pat, with a leer, "By the holy St. Patrick! I'll purchase two pair!"

WEDLOCK IS A TICKLISH THING.

WEDLOCK is a ticklish thing,

Hey merrily ho, and ho merrily hey;
And will joy or sorrow bring,

Hey merrily ho, hey ho!

Oh, how delightful pass their days away,
Who, never spiteful, only toy and play.

Spoken]-Will you take a walk this morning, my love? Yes, my dear. Then you had better put on your clogs, my chicken, for fear of catching cold. And pray do you put on your great coat, lest you might increase your cough. Thank you, my darling, for your care of me. When do you intend to instruct our new willa on Ampstead Eath. Vhy as soon as them 'ere artichecks sends in their demensions, and so on. Don't forget to have towers and such like things, to make it look all the world as though it wur a little castle. I von't, I von't; and I'll have a worander in front, that you may look at the folk go up and down on a Sunday arternoon. Can't we cover the front with shells to make it look like a, like a-1 know, a emintage you means. Yes, my dear. So ve vill, my duck. Oh, Wedlock's joys are soft and sweet,

Hey merrily ho, and ho merrily hey!
When fond hearts in union meet,
Hey merrily ho, hey ho!

Let us only change the scene,

Ho terrible hey, and hey terrible ho!
Take a peep behind the screen,
Ho terrible ho, hey ho!

What she proposes, be it good or bad,
He still opposes till he drives her mad.

Spoken]-Do you dine at home to-day, sir? I can't tell, ma'am. What shall I provide? What you like. Would you like a roasted chicken? You know I don't like roasted chicken. Well, boiled then? Worse and worse. What will you have then? Nothing. Very well, sir. Very well, ma'am. I say, Mr. Shrimp, vhen am I to have that 'ere new polese, vhich you promised me? Vhen you treats a gemman like a gemman, and conducts yourself like a lady. O, not till then. No. Wery vell, sir, then you will let me perish with cold. That I'm sure you von't, for you are alvays in ot vater. O, I vish you vere-At the

devil; I knows you do, but I'll live a few years longer on purpose to plague you. Thus

Wedlock is a dreadful state,

Ho terrible hey, and hey terrible ho!
When cold hearts are joined by fate,
Ho terrible ho, hey ho!

CARDINAL Wolsey was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says.
Meaning, (in metaphor,) for ever puffing,
To swell beyond his size and span ;

But had he seen a player in our days
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,

He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equalled not that within the bounds

This actor's belt surrounds,

Which is, moreover, all alive and real.
This player, when the peace enabled shoals
Of our odd fishes

To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken,
Although his wishes

Must not, in this proceeding, be mistaken;
For he went out professionally,-bent
To see how money may be made, not spent.

In this most laudable employ

He found himself at Lille one afternoon,
And, that he might the breeze enjoy,

And catch a peep at the ascending moon,
Out of the town he took a stroll,
Refreshing in the fields his soul,

With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.

When we are pleasantly employed time flies;
He counted up his profits, in the skies,
Until the moon began to shine,
On which he gazed awhile, and then

Pulled out his watch, and cried-" Past nine, Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten."

Backward he turn'd his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main ;
And, though 'tis plain

He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it) he Marched well for one of such obesity. Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping, He puffed and blew along the road, Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping, When in his path he met a clown Returning from the town.

Tell me," he panted, in a thawing state, "Dost think I can get in friend, at the gate ?" "Get in!" replied the hesitating loon, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, "Why-yes, Sir, I should think you might, "A load of hay went in this afternoon.'

DEEPLY shadow'd by the night,

On the platform'd tower he stands ;

And his lonely hour is bright

With the dream of conquer'd lands,
Where his chosen bands have striven;

Where his plumed host appears,

And its soaring eagle bears

Its boast of blood and tears

Unto heaven!