Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water,

Thof a X Sherrif might know Better, than make things for slaughtter,

As if War warnt Cruel enuff-wherever it befalls, Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls

But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs

As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs,

For washing Dirt Cheap-and eating other Peple's grubs!

Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He!

They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be!)

And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods,

When you and your Steem has ruined (G―d forgive mee) their lively Hoods,

Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their youth!

And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four

Sooth!

But if so be they They leave their Lines what are they to go at

They won't do for Angell's-nor any Trade like

That,

Nor we cant Sow Babby Work-for that's all Bespoke

For the Queakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk

Do their own of Themselves-even the bettermost of em―aye, and evn them of middling degrees

Why Lauk help you Babby Linen ant Bread and

Cheese!

Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers-like Mr. Marshes and Mr. Chamberses-and that's what we must!

God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects,

When you nose you have sucked us and hanged round our Mutherly necks,

And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing

You ant, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing

In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females La

bers

And prettily jeared At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now by your next door nay

bors

Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up

No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round,

They'll scruntch your Bones some day--I'll be bound,

And no more nor be a gudgement for it cant come to good

To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing-nor not fit It should,

For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation,
Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the
Creation-

And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot Nation.

Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs

And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs

But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nyther Bybills or Good Tracks,

Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs

And let your neighbors oxin an Asses alone

And every Thing thats hern-and give every one their Hone!

Well, its God for us Al, and every Washer Wommen for herself,

And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,

But if you warnt Noddis you Let wommen abe And pull of Your Pattins-and leave the washing

to we

That nose what's what-Or mark what I say,
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some

Day

When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs, and their ant nun at all,

And Cris mass cum-and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,

Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his Harm-Chare

Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew

And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew,

With a vast more like That-and all along of Steem,

Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeamBut thats your Losses, and youl have to make It

Good,

And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, For men mought Get their Bread a great many

ways

Without taking ourn-aye, and Moor to your Prays You might go and skim the creme off Mr. MuckAdam's milky ways-that's what you might,

Or bete Carpets-or get into Parleamint-or drive Crabrolays from morning to night,

Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a poste!

(Which is an od way of sleping, I must say—and a very hard pillow at most,)

Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares,

Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen,) and roe peple up and down Hungerford stares, Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt!

But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!

Yourn with Anymocity,
BRIDGET JONES

ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. *

"By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!"
LOVE'S LABOURS LOST.

PARRY, my man! has thy brave leg
Yet struck its foot against the peg
On which the world is spun ?
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare
Writ by the hand of Nature there
Where man has never run!

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown
Of channels in the Frozen Zone,

Or held at Icy Bay,

Hast thou still missed the proper track
For homeward Indiamen that lack
A bracing by the way?

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble
On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble
Of geographic scholar?

Or found new ways for ships to shape,
Instead of winding round the Cape,
A short cut thro' the collar!

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to*
The Pole-tho' God knows whom they went to
That track revealed to Pope-

Or if the Arctic waters sally,
Or terminate in some blind alley,
A chilly path to grope ?

Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows,
Has painted them couleur de rose,
It is a dismal doom,

As Claudio saith, to winter thrice,
"In regions of thick-ribbed ice ”.

All bright and yet all gloom!

'Tis well for Gheber souls that sit
Before the fire and worship it

With pecks of Wallsend coals,
With feet upon the fender's front,
Roasting their corns-like Mr. Hunt-
To speculate on poles.

'Tis easy for our Naval Board-
'Tis easy for our Civic Lord
Of London and of ease,

That lies in ninety feet of down,
With fur on his nocturnal gown,
To talk of Frozen Seas!

"Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit,

"And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole."

Eloisa to Abelard