FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MAR

And now in England, just as gay

As in the battle brave, Goes to a rout, review, or play,

With one foot in the grave.

Fortune in vain here showed her spite,
For he will still be found,
Should England's sons engage in fight,
Resolved to stand his ground.

But Fortune's pardon I must beg;
She meant not to disarm,
For when she lopped the hero's leg,
She did not seek his harm,

And but indulged a harmless whim;
Since he could walk with one,
She saw two legs were lost on him,
Who never meant to run.

GEORGE CANNING.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

OF WATERLOO.

HERE rests, and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,

To learn that mouldering in the grave
Is laid a British Calf.

For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot, to speak more plain, Rests here of one commanding; Who, though his wits he might retain, Lost half his understanding.

And when the guns, with thunder fraught,
Poured bullets thick as hail,
Could only in this way be taught
To give the foe leg-bail

A nostrum famous in old popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes :

A sort of apostolic salt,

Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

grim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Ods curse it!" cried the other, “'t is no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear,
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No, to the devil my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 't is that you are not in pain.

All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore;

Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,

And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er :

His muzzle formed of opposition stuff,

Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;

So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds.

toes,

Whilst I just like a snail am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!"

"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,

That just before I ventured on my journey,

To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas."

DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (Peter Pindar).

THE RAZOR-SELLER.

A FELLOW in a market-town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard, — Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his

nose:

With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, And proudly to himself in whispers said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze ;

Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
"Razors ! a mean, confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!"

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P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,

With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah! I tell you you 're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave!"

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave;

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?"

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

"In the parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, - and

Heaven help the husband then!"

The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said.

that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mas tery thereby."- FULLER.

A WELL there is in the West country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the West country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Pleasant it was to his eye,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,
And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the neighboring town
At the well to fill his pail,

On the well-side he rested it,
And bade the stranger hail.

And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch.

But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE EGGS AND THE HORSES.

A MATRIMONIAL EPIC.

JOHN DOBBINS was so captivated

By Mary Trueman's fortune, face, and cap, (With near two thousand pounds the hook was baited,)

That in he popped to matrimony's trap.

One small ingredient towards happiness,
It seems, ne'er occupied a single thought;
For his accomplished bride
Appearing well supplied

With the three charms of riches, beauty, dress,
He did not, as he ought,

Think of aught else; so no inquiry made he
As to the temper of the lady.

And here was certainly a great omission; None should accept of Hymen's gentle fetter, "For worse or better,'

Whatever be their prospect or condition, Without acquaintance with each other's nature; For many a mild and quiet creature

Of charming disposition,

Alas! by thoughtless marriage has destroyed it. So take advice; let girls dress e'er so tastily, Don't enter into wedlock hastily

Unless you can't avoid it.

Week followed week, and, it must be confest, The bridegroom and the bride had both been blest;

Month after month had languidly transpired,

Both parties became tired:
Year after year dragged on;
Their happiness was gone.

Ah! foolish pair!

"Bear and forbear"

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No," said the man, with smiling phiz,
"My master is not, but my mistress is ;
Walk in that parlor, sir, my lady 's in it
Master will be himself there-in a minute."
The lady said her husband then was dressing,
And, if his business was not very pressing,
She would prefer that he should wait until
His toilet was completed;
Adding, "Pray, sir, be seated."
"Madam, I will,"

Said John, with great politeness;
That you alone

"but I own

Can tell me all I wish to know;
Will you do so?

Pardon my rudeness,

And just have the goodness

(A wager to decide) to tell me do Who governs in this house, your spouse or you?"

"Sir," said the lady, with a doubting nod, "Your question 's very odd;

But as I think none ought to be

Ashamed to do their duty (do you see?)

On that account I scruple not to say

It always is my pleasure to obey.