Happy in worrying

A poor defenceless harmless buck

The horse and rider wet as muck

From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Entered through curiosity a cot,

Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-eyed good old granny,
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny,
Had finished apple dumplings for her pot:

In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,

Like lightning spoke: What's this? what's this? whes, Tiven ??

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,

His eyes with admiration did expand;

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he cried

'Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed!

What makes it, pray, so hard?' The dame replied,
Low curtsying. Please your majesty, the apple.'

Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!'-
Turning the dumpling round-rejoined the king
'Tis most extr ordinary, then, all this is-
It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces:
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream!
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ?'

'Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she; 'I never knew
That folks did apple dumplings sew;'

'No!' cried the staring monarch with a grin;

'How, how the devil got the apple in?'

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed
By which the apple lay so sly concealed,

Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the palace with full speed repaired,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared
All with the wonders of the dumpling art.

There did he labour one whole week to shew
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker;
And, lo! so deep was majesty in dough,
The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!

Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majesties.

Full of the art of brewing beer,

The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame;

6

Quoth he unto the queen: My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brewRich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew.

Shame, shame we have not yet his brew-house seen!'
Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen.

Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made:
Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid

He should not charm enough his guests divine,
He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks;
And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,
To make the apprentices and draymen fine:
Busy as horses in a field of clover,

Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools were tumbled over, Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation,

To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,
To visit the first brewer in the land;

Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner, christened Chiswell Street;
But oftener, charmed with fashionable air,
Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,
His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise,
With Lady Harcourt, joined the raree show
And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes:
For lo a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,
Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs. .

Thus was the brew-house filled with gabbling noise,
Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys,

Devoured the questions that the king did ask; In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen! Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves-a pretty luncheonInto the mouth of many a gaping puncheon:

And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye, To view and be assured what sort of things

Were princesses, and queens, and kings,

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!

And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan,

Few were the mouths that had not got a man!

Now majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:
Examining with care each wondrous matter
That brought up water!

And now his curious majesty did stoop
To count the nails on every hoop;

And lo! no single thing came in his way,

That, full of deep research, he did not say,

'What's this? hae, hae? What's that? What's this? What's that

So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak,

As if each syllable would break its neck.

Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl,
Our sov'reign peeps into the world of small:
Thus microscopic geniuses explore

Things that too oft provoke the public scorn;
Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,
By finding systems in a peppercorn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare,
To make the majesty of England stare,
That he had butts enough, he knew,

Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew;

On which the king with wonder swiftly cried:

'What if they reach to Kew. then, side by side,

What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?'

To whom, with knitted calculating brow,

The man of beer most solemnly did vow,

Almost to Windsor that they would extend:
On which the king, with wondering mien,
Repeated it unto the wondering queen;

On which, quick turning round his haltered head,
The brewer's horse, with face astonished, neighed ;
The brewer's dog, too, poured a note of thunder,
Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire,
For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire;
And after talking of these different beers,
Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling disagreeing question,
Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion;
A kind of question to the man of Cask
That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum-book,

With gilded leaves of ass's-skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write-

MEMORANDUM,

A charming place beneath the grates
For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM.

'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer,

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUARE.

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM.

To try it soon on our small beer-
"Twill save us several pounds a year.

MEM.

To remember to forget to ask

Old Whitbread to my house one day.

MEM.

Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offered me away.

Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point, indeed, of a new pin,
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his ass's-skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say:
'Whitbread, are all your horses foud of hay?'
'Yes, please your majesty,' in humble notes
The brewer answered-Also, sire, of oats;
Another thing my horses, too, maintains,

And that, an 't please your majesty, are grains.'

'Grains, grains,' said majesty, 'to fill their crops?

Grains, grains ?-that comes from hops-yes, hops, hops, hops

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault

'Sire,' cried the humble brewer, 'give me leave

Your sacred majesty to undeceive;

Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.'

'True,' said the cautious monarch with a smile,
'From malt, malt, malt-I meant malt all the while.
'Yes,' with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
'An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.'
'Yes,' answered majesty, with quick reply,
'I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.' ...

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine;

On which the bell rung out-how very proper !-
To shew it was a bell, and had a clapper.
And now before their sovereign's curious eye-
Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their sty-
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs;
On which the observant man who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own;
On which the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Fear and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal,

Exclaimed: 'O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine?

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal ?'
To which the king assented with a nod;

On which the brewer bowed, and said: Good God!'
Then winked significant on Miss,

Significant of wonder and of bliss,

E. L. vol. v.-3

Who, bridling in her chin divine,
Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,

And then her lowest curtsy made

For such high honour done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty, so gracious, say
To Mister Whitbread in his flying way.

'Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then?
Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?
Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid?
What, what's the matter with the men?

'D'ye hunt?-hae, hunt? No no, you are too old;
You'll be lord-mayor-lord-mayor one day;
Yes, yes, I've heard so; yes, yes, so I'm told;
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay;
I'll prick you every year, man, I declare;
Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor.

'Whitbread, d' ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.
You put your liveries on the draymen-hae?

Hae, Whitbread? You have feathered well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hae, of all your stock?
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock ?"

Now Whitbread inward said: May I be cursed
If I know what to answer first.'

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye;
But ere the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and balked the honour of reply.

Lord Gregory.

Burns admired this ballad of Wolcot's,

'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,

A midnight wanderer sighs;
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,
And lightnings cleave the skies.'

"Who comes with woe at this drear night,
A pilgrim of the gloom?
If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'

and wrote another on the same subject.
'Alas! thou heardst a pilgrim mourn
That once was prized by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

'But shouldst thou not poor Marion know,
I'll turn my feet and part; [blow,
And think the storms that round me
Far kinder than thy heart.'

Epigram on Sleep.

Thomas Wharton wrote the following Latin epigram to be placed under the statute of Somnus, in the garden of Harris, the philologist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original.

Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago
Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori;
Alma quies, optata, veni, nam sic sine vitâ
Vivere quam suave est; sic sine morte mori.

Come, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer,
And, though death's image, to my couch repair;
How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie,
And, without dying, O how sweet to die!