Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease,

And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens' and twelve geese.

Of course the green 's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;

Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.

There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigstyes, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds;

With plenty of public-houses-two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads.

The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise

A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackled “neat postchaise."

There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,

Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease;

And close by the churchyard, there's a stonemason's yard, that when the time is seasonable

Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been

in it with Old Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike ; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any thing else you like.

I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;

But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is always there almost.

There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.

There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;

But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of every thing you ask.

You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask :

There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out,

For billstickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.

That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen;

A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green.

As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages,

a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle.

There are three small orchards Mr. Busby's

the schoolmaster's is the chief

With two pear-trees that don't bear; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripped by a thief.

There's, another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby.

A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby;

There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,

For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;

There's a barber's, once a-week well filled with

rough black-bearded shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumb

er's, and a small green-grocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and

an undertaker ;

And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops;

One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, batts, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and

hops.

And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be

a bit behind her betters,

Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a ratcatcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it 's

the post-office for letters.

Now I've gone through all the village

ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,

But I haven't come to that and I hope I never

shall

and that's the Village Poor-House!

A TRUE STORY.

WHOE'ER has seen upon the human face
The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black,
May form a notion of old Colonel Case
With nigger Pompey waiting at his back.

Case, as the case is, many time with folks
From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay,

Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say,
And showed two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks.
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block,

In hue was like his master's stiff cravat,

And might indeed have claimed akin to that,
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.

Case wore the liver's livery that such
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature's staining one of those
We call fast colours - merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.

Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow,

The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,

And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.

Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet,
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot,
A fact recorded in each day's diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news;

But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,

The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly,