But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner- A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,”— "Kiss and be d-d," quoth John, "and go to hell!" Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg, When the blithe bagpipe blew-but, soberer now, And teeth of yore, on slender provocation, A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon, And was d-d close in making of a bargain. The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook; If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning, I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."— "What say you to the present?"—"Meal's sae dear, To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."— "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began.— Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg❞— "Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg. Now, for the land of verdant Erin, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, For a long space had John, with words of thunder In the round world was not the match of Pat. Which is with Paddy still a jolly day; When mass is ended, and his load of sins Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. "By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking (Much less provocation will set it a-walking), But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack; THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. THOMAS MOORE A DONKEY Whose talent for burden was wondrous, His owners and drivers stood round in amaze- For every description of job-work so ready! One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother") For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down. But, how to upraise him?-one shouts, t'other whistles, Declared that an "over-production" of thistles— (Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall. Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes แ There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease; The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.'" H Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces, But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic, Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"— Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear, To advisers whose ears were a match for his own. At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY. R. HARRIS BARHAM. MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur). I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy-I said "What make you here ?— He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy-he deem'd I meant to scoff- "Hark! don't you hear, my little man?-it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold-Oh! fie! It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!" The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony-he cried like any thing! "My father, he is on the seas,-my mother's dead and gone! "If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!" "Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up !" I kindly said, You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck-then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs! "Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones-we must not keep her up There's roast potatoes on the fire,-enough for me and you— Come home, you little vulgar Boy-I lodge at Number 2." I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, I did not go to Jericho-I went to Mr. Cobb I changed a shilling-(which in town the people call "a Bob")— |