"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,

Sir Lawyer, you attended him,
(I mean to tax your bill ;)
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about:

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready

To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order

You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store;

And those who save a little

Shall get a plenty more."

As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
Set out, at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning,
This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gayly o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,

He clears it with a bound;

But dullness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass
with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other,
But onward go your beat,

While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

"And ever, as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
Your flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited

To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are weakest,
The witty are not wise;
O, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold—
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold;

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,

My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents;

แ I leave to you, my Thomas-" ("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas,To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation

What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage

Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company,

And honest Ned's amaze!

""Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, ""Tis even as I said;

'T was thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed,
And here's his autograph."
"In truth, our father's writing,"
Said Edward, with a laugh;
"But thou shalt not be loser, Tom,
We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing can not be;
"Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a half-penny.

"He hath a store of money,

But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;

He hath no need of property

He knows not how to spend it.

"Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,

And Edward be the lord;

And as the honest laborer

Is worthy his reward,

"I pray Prince Ned, my second son,

And my successor dear,

To pay to his intendant

Five hundred pounds a year;

And to think of his old father,

And live and make good cheer.""

Such was old Brentford's honest testament;
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent ;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed,
То say his young son Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured,
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew;
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.

And when both died, as mortal men will do, "T was commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone,

How shall I e'er my woes reveal?

I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

WITH twenty pounds but three weeks since
From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel,

I thought myself as rich a prince
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means-
In troth, I was a happy chiel!
I passed the gate of Valenciennes.
I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds
Some rascal knave would dare to steal;

I gayly passed the Belgic bounds
At Quiévrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post,
And as I took my evening meal

I felt my pouch,—my purse was lost,

O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?