A TABLE OF ERRATA.

(HOSTESS LOQUITUR.)

ELL! thanks be to heaven,

The summons is given ;

It's only gone seven

And should have been six;

There's fine overdoing

In roasting and stewing,

And victuals past chewing
To rags and to sticks!

How dreadfully chilly!
I shake, willy-nilly;
That John is so silly

And never will learn!
This plate is a cold one,
That cloth is an old one,
I wish they had told one
The lamp wouldn't burn.

Now then for some blunder,
For nerves to sink under;
I never shall wonder

Whatever goes ill.

That fish is a riddle!
It's broke in the middle,

A Turbot! a fiddle!

It's only a Brill!

It's quite over-boil'd too,

The butter is oil'd too,

The soup is all spoil'd too,
It's nothing but slop.
The smelts looking flabby,
The soles are as dabby,
It all is so shabby

That Cook shall not stop!

As sure as the morning, 】
She gets a month's warning,

My orders for scorning-
There's nothing to eat!
I hear such a rushing,
I feel such a flushing,
I know I am blushing
As red as a beet!

Friends flatter and flatter,
I wish they would chatter;
What can be the matter

That nothing comes next?
How very unpleasant!
Lord! there is the pheasant!
Not wanted at present,

I'm born to be vext!

The pudding brought on toe And aiming at ton too! And where is that John too,

The plague that he is? He's off on some ramble: And there is Miss Campbell Enjoying the scramble, Detestable Quiz!

The veal they all eye it,
But no one will try it,

An Ogre would shy it

So ruddy as that!
And as for the mutton,
The cold dish it's put on,
Converts to a button

Each drop of the fat.

The beef without mustard!

My fate's to be fluster'd, And there comes the custard

To eat with the hare! Such flesh, fowl, and fishing, Such waiting and dishing, I cannot help wishing

A woman might swear!!

Oh dear! did I ever-
But no, I did never-
Well, come, that is clever,

To send up the brawn!
That cook, I could scold her,
Gets worse as she's older;
I wonder who told her

That woodcocks are drawn!

It's really audacious!
I cannot look gracious,
Lord help the voracious

That came for a cram!
There's Alderman Fuller;
Gets duller and duller.
Those fowls, by the colour,

Were boil'd with the ham!

Well, where is the curry?
I'm all in a flurry,

No, cook's in no hurry

A stoppage again!

And John makes it wider,

A pretty provider!

By bringing up cider

Instead of champagne!

My troubles come faster!
There's my lord and master
Detects each disaster,

And hardly can sit :
He cannot help seeing,
All things disagreeing;
If he begins d-ing
I'm off in a fit!

This cooking?-it's messing!

The spinach wants pressing,
And salads in dressing

Are best with good eggs.

And John-yes, already—

Has had something heady,
That makes him unsteady
In keeping his legs.

How shall I get through it!
I never can do it,

I'm quite looking to it,

To sink by and by.

Oh! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,

To cover my head now

And have a good cry!

THE GREEN MAN.

OM SIMPSON was as nice a kind of man As ever lived-at least at number Four, In Austin Friars, in Mrs. Brown's first floor, At fifty pounds,- —or thereabouts,—per ann. The Lady reckon'd him her best of lodgers, His rent so punctually paid each quarter,-He did not smoke like nasty foreign codgersNor play French horns like Mr. RogersOr talk his flirting nonsense to her daughterNot that the girl was light behaved or courtableStill on one failing tenderly to touch,

The Gentleman did like a drop too much,
(Tho' there are many such)

And took more Port than was exactly portable.
In fact, to put the cap upon the nipple,
And try the charge,-Tom certainly did tipple.
He thought the motto was but sorry stuff

On Cribb's Prize Cup-Yes, wrong in ev'ry letter-
That "D-d be he who first cries Hold Enough!"
The more cups hold, and if enough, the better.
And so to set example in the eyes

Of Fancy's lads, and give a broadish hint to them,
All his cups were of such ample size

That he got into them.

Once in the company of merry mates,
In spite of Temperance's ifs and buts,
So sure as Eating is set off with plates,
His Drinking always was bound up with cuts!

Howbeit, such Bacchanalian revels
Bring very sad catastrophes about;
Palsy, Dyspepsy, Dropsy, and Blue Devils,
Not to forget the Gout.

Sometimes the liver takes a spleenful whim
To grow to Strasbourg's regulation size,
As if for those hepatical goose pies-

Or out of depth the head begins to swim-
Poor Simpson! what a thing occurred to him!
'Twas Christmas-he had drunk the night before,—
Like Baxter, who "so went beyond his last "-
One bottle more, and then one bottle more,
Till, oh! the red-wine Ruby-con was pass'd!
And homeward, by the short small chimes of day,
With many a circumbendibus to spare,

For instance, twice round Finsbury Square,
To use a fitting phrase, he wound his way.

Then comes the rising, with repentance bitter, And all the nerves--(and sparrows)-in a twitter, Till settled by the sober Chinese cup:

The hands, o'er all, are members that make motions,
A sort of wavering just like the ocean's,

Which has its swell, too, when it's getting up-
An awkward circumstance enough for elves

Who shave themselves;

And Simpson just was ready to go thro' it

When lo! the first short glimpse within the glassHe jump'd-and who alive would fail to do it?—

To see, however it had come to pass,

One section of his face as green as grass!

In vain each eager wipe,

With soap-without-wet-hot or cold—or dry,
Still, still, and still, to his astonished eye
One cheek was green, the other cherry ripe!
Plump in the nearest chair he sat him down,