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Curls at his ears and neck, and ribbons gay-
What can that be?
A puppy, New Year's Day.
A puppy, well--- and what's that stubborn dog,
That stands stock still, as senseless as a log?
Threats, blows, nor love, nor prayers move the fool :
I hope that's not a Man?
No, that's -- a Mule.
1825. But heavens! what comes here? Look now, the Moon? Look!
1824, Where? God bless me, no — an Air Balloon !!! In a work basket underneath that ball; Don't you see something move?
No, not at all.
1824. Nonsense, you must - A little kind of Flea, Waving his hat and flag about.
I see ! Under the Great Beast's belly.
Poor little thing, what is it?
That's a Man.
1825. A Man?
A Man !
The Lord have mercy on us!
Mind, have a care, 'twill burst and fall upon us !
See, see, it's torn, gods! how the rent increases !
It falls, down, down, and the Man's dashed to pieces !
These, New Year's Day, are symptoms of mankind;
How far they leave all other beasts behind !
For do you think that any Ass would dare,
Frisk for his pleasure through the empty air?
Do you imagine that that Goose hard by,
If it had not two wings, would try to fly?
But Man has got, most kindly given by Fate,
A little nob at top he calls his pate;
And in that nob such whimseys, and such schemes,
Such wild ideas, and visionary dreams,
That during all your yearalty on earth,
His compound oddities may make you mirth;
For, to complete him in another part,
Besides this nob he has a thing called heart,
A very upright thing, as I've been told,
When times were young, and New Year's Days were old;
But human hearts have seldom travelled straight,
Since their first parents passed the fiery gate.
In brother One there lived a Mr. Adam,
But he, poor man, was ruined by a madam;
By her mismanagement there hobbled in
A wretched, finny sort of jade, called Sin;
She manages the heart, caprice the pate,
These jointly human actions regulate.
Thus as you run your annual orbit through,
These puppets will exhibit to your view
Feats that no other animals delight in,
Intrigues, cotillions, scrutiny, and fighting;
Dress, gaming, poetry, electioneering,
Bowing, and flattery, coquetting, leering ;
Corruption, honour, poverty, and pride,
Ambition, lust, love, duel, suicide;
Music, and praying, bloodshed, murder, thieving,
Preaching, blaspheming, swearing, laughing, grieving;
Freedom and slavery, obedience, treason,
Folly and vice, philosophy and reason.
Twelve months of each a specimen will give,
So, if you like this chaos, brother, live.
At the twelfth hour your Zodiac race pursue,
I leave the world to darkness, and to you;
To sin, and folly,
-hark ! - I hear the bell,
My almanack existence ends Farewell!
[Erit Twentyfour as the clock strikes twelve. The Sun rises and sets on the following days during this month, as below.
Table of the Rising and Setting for every Fifth Day. December 1st, О rises 57 m. after 7. Sets 3 m. after 4. 6th,
SUPPLEMENTARY AND MISCELLANEOUS
INTENDED TO BEGUILE PLEASANTLIE THE TIME OE THOSE SITTING UP TO
HEAR THE NEW YEARE RUNG IN BY THE BELLS.
To my Honour'd Friend Maister Sperefount.
Thou bin gat saufely home yt sombre night I wis,
When soverayne liege under colde ground inhumid is,
Waist thou by hard mishappe reduced to noyous plighte,
Οf αυμηδoσφυρος or μονοφθαχμ' ypight;
Thy Pannikell persent, thy Ventaile raft,
Wrinkled thy stole of checkt latour embraft,
Thy wareless woebegone,
Foreswonk and eke foredone,
How didst thou hurlen forth,
Although through the gibing preace
Tragid by thy glittering glaive,
In the same night, О night of piteous woe,
When Lording's Wain by preace subverst,
Was in ten thousand pieces hrast.
Τεχθα γε και τα τραχθα διαγρυφεν αρμα
Ατρειδης διαμαζειν έδων εις δρανον ευρυν.
I see by white safely from hame yblest,
Stole to my vetchly bed and joyd my vest,
Whun Morpheus mured up mine eyne,
And slepe embraced my limbs until Aurore,
Purpled with watched waves ye welkin o'er.
Upstert I though eftsoones and vaded out,
And searched for Catalouges all about,
Ne list me longer stay in London toune.
But whylome am I to Enfelde ygone,
The Vidame of Cambridge went, as men sayen,
Up to oure Kinge bis compliments to payen
Pullati proceres were with him I ween,
It were a spectacle goodlie to be sene,
Here shall my penne his cources forelowe,
I take my conge lounting full lowe. — R.G.
On a House ybuilded in Clay Street, Walthamstow, about Fifty Years
agone. By Festina Lentè.
All in the Lande of Essex,
In Walthamstow the pleasant,
On a very small estate
Such a House was built of late,
As amazed both Squire and Peasant;
And near thereto a Stable,
Of materials, Heaven knows, brittle enough :
In all the Town about
Not a Horse could be found out,
That for that Stable was little enough.
The beauteous situation
Of this House made all men adore it;
A sketch of it to give ye,
Behind it stood a privie,
And a Haybaru before it. LIBITINA.-On the Funerall of an Old Horse. I am not certain whether the Newspapers have recorded the funeral procession, and the quantity of Ale which was ydronken at the funeraille of an auncient steed, ycleped Mouse, who whylom the Knyghte of the Boar's head thro manie a peryl drede, and who was lately ygraven in an Orchat borderynge on the Tounlette of Stapylfoorde near Harteforde; how the Clerk of the sayde parysche having well ydronken, wrote thereon an Epitaphe, which here floweth :
You that can reade, be this place!
And you that cannot, look !
For why, an horse of mickle grace,
Lyes buried in this nook.
His breath hath left his body lank,
And is fled far away;
Here resteth be all drear and dank,
For ever and for aye.
The parish bell it did not toll;
Now, would ye know for why,
The parson said he had no soul,
And therefore could not dye.
For well I know bad he been dead,
The bell it should have rung,
Even though the Bishop had gainsaid
His churlish priests among.
Wherefore, &c. Now the Clerke being some dele prolix, and by the help of the Ales, when he had y'gotten to the 50th Stanza, had waxed in no wise decent, but had reviled the parsonne foulle, as having deprived him of the fee he should have received for knowling the Belle; the parsonne, to make some little amends, did ywrite this Horation, verie truly
phylosophical consolatory Ode of the Knyghte of the Bore's Head.
Horace, Book I. Ode xxiv.
Where can be the shame or measure
Of grief, for loss of such a treasure,
Moli Lamfield, sing the morning song,
To thee the task does well belong;
Thy liquid vine, with funeral Ale
By father moistened, will prevail.
Perpetual slumber seizes Mouse,
Than whorn no horse approached house
More faithfull, modest, or more true ;
A better never carried you.
He feared no way though e'er so sbabby,
Nor started at a buttressed abbey;
He mounted up each ancient keep,
Nor dreaded precipice though steep,
Nor stopped nor stumbled though you rode on
The craggy paths which lead to Snowdon.
The neighbours good bewailed his fall,
But you lamented most of all,
And you would pray the skies in rain,
To fetch him back to life again.
Though every tuneful gift possessing,
You sing more sweet than Thalussin,
Who to the steeds on Cambrian plain,
Piped the soft diuretic strain ;
No British Ass that browsed on thistle,
But when he began to whistle ;
But when the clacking thong of Death,
Had driven a Horse quite out of breath,
Though in the Orchard he should walk,
By moonlight gleam, with ghostly stalk;
Or, like a sable headless steed,
Would nightly roam the neighbouring mead:
Whom Mercury once gets in tether,
Can never breath and form together.
'Tis hard, but we are well assured,
What can't be cured, must be endured.
It was the Editor's intention to have inserted here a series of Odes, Epistles, and Poems of different living and deceased Authors, written at College; but the thought was afterwards abandoned for many obvious reasons, as they related to living characters: and the supplementary series was consequently broken off abruptly on second thoughts.