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So, you know, what could I say to her any more ?
cunning man ! No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be
here anon. So the chaplain * came in. Now, the servants say
he is my sweetheart, Because he 's always in my chamber, and I always
take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware,
out I blunder'd, Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity, when a body's
plunder'd ? (Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd parson
like the devil !) Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to
be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says,
d'ye see; You are no text for my handling ; so take that from
I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have
you to know. Lord! said I, don't be angry, I am sure I never
thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a
parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer, in all
With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as
who should say, Now you may go hang yourself for me! and so went
away. Well : I thought I should have swoon'd. Lord !
said I, what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love
too! Then my lord callid me: Harry *, said my lord,
don't cry; I'll give you something towards thy loss; and,
"says my lady, so will I. Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the chaplain
won't come to ? For that, he said, (an't please your excellencies,) I
must petition you. The premisses tenderly consider’d, I desire your
ercellencies protection, "And that I may have a share in next Sunday's col
·lection; And over and above, that I may have your excellen
cies letter, With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead
of him, a better : And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound,
shall ever pray.
• A cant word of Lord and Lady B. to Mrs. Harris.
TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW,
WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN.
MORDAnto fills the trump of fame,
In journies he outrides the post,
Knows every prince in Europe's face,
From Paris gazette à-la-main,
A messenger comes all a-reek,
Next day the post-boy winds his horn,
Mordanto gallops on alone;
His body active as his mind,
A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigour, Would halt behind him, were it bigger.
So wonderful his expedition,
Shines in all climates like a star;
Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his name-sake, Charles of Sweden.
THE PROGRESS OF POETRY.
The farmer's goose, who in the stubble
But, when she must be turn’d to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise and harder fare Soon make my dame grow lank and spare : Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs; While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.
Such is the poet fresh in pay
But view him in another scene,