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This is a correct copy of a little poem which has been often printed, and not quite accurately. It first appeared, many years ago, in the "Globe' and "Traveller," and was suggested by a speech in which Mr. Wilberforce, replying to an observation of Dr. Lushington, that "the Society for the Suppresion of Vice meddled with the poor alone," said that "the offences of the poor came more under observation than those of the rich."-T. L. P.

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E poor man's sins are glaring;

T In the face of ghostly warning

He is caught in the fact

Of an overt act

Buying greens on Sunday morning.

The rich man's sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station;
And escape the sight

Of the children of light,

Who are wise in their generation.

The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;

The poor who would roast
To the baker's must post,

And thus becomes a sinner.

The rich man has a cellar,

And a ready butler by him;

The poor must steer

For his pint of beer

Where the saint can't choose but spy him.

The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;

The poor can but share

A crack'd fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.

The rich man is invisible

In the crowd of his gay society;
But the poor man's delight
Is a sore in the sight,

And a stench in the nose of piety.

The rich man has a carriage
Where no rude eye can flout him;
The poor man's bane

Is a third class train,

With the day-light all about him.

The rich man goes out yachting.
Where sanctity can't pursue him ;
The poor goes afloat

In a fourpenny boat,

Where the bishop groans to view him.

THE FATE OF A BROOM.

AN ANTICIPATION.

These lines were published in the "Examiner" of August, 1831. They were then called an anticipation. They may now be fairly en titled a prophecy fulfilled.-T. L. P., 1837.

L

O! in Corruption's lumber-room,

The remnants of a wondrous broom,
That walking, talking, oft was seen,
Making stout promise to sweep clean,
But evermore, at every push,

Proved but a stump without a brush.
Upon its handle-top, a sconce,

Like Brahma's looked four ways at once:
Pouring on king, lords, church, and rabble,
Long floods of favour-currying gabble;
From four-fold mouth-piece always spinning
Projects of plausible beginning,

Whereof said sconce did ne'er intend
That any one should have an end;
Yet still, by shifts and quaint inventions,
Got credit for its good intentions,
Adding no trifle to the store

Wherewith the Devil paves his floor.
Found out at last, worn bare and scrubbish,
And thrown aside with other rubbish,
We'll e'en hand o'er the enchanted stick,
As a choice present for Old Nick,
To sweep, beyond the Stygian lake,
The pavement it has helped to make.

BYP AND NOP.

Promotion BY PURCHASE and by NO PURCHASE; or a Dialogue between Captain A. and Colonel Q.

UOTH Byp to Nop, "I made my hop
By paying for promotion :”—

Quoth Nop to Byp, "I made my skip
By aid of petticoatian.'

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Quoth Nop to Byp, "You'll never trip
Ascending steps of Gold by "—
Quoth Byp to Nop, "You'll never drop

With such a tail to hold by."

[N.B. Byp, for by purchase, and Nop, for no purchase, are the common official abbreviations in all returns of promotions, and ring the changes through long columns of Parliamentary papers.]

VOL. III.

17

THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL.

[Published in 1861 (Bentley's Ballads)].

Ο

LD Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall,
To market drove his wain:

Along the road it went well stowed
With sacks of golden grain.

His station he took, but in vain did he look
For a customer all the morn,

Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off all their corn.

Then home he went, sore discontent,

And many an oath he swore,

And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse,
When they met him at the door.

Next market-day, he drove away
To the town his loaded wain :
The farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off all their grain.

No bidder he found, and he stood astound

At the close of the market-day,

When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone, Each man his several way.

He stalked by his load, along the road;

His face with wrath was red:

His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed
In seeking his daily bread.

His face was red, and fierce was his tread,
And with lusty voice cried he:

"My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell,
If he'll my chapman be."

These words he spoke, just under an oak,

Seven hundred winters old;

And he straight was aware of a man sitting there,

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The roots rose high, o'er the greensward dry,
And the grass around was green,
Save just the space of the stranger's place,
Where it seemed as fire had been.

All scorched was the spot, as gypsy pot
Had swung and bubbled there :

The grass was marred, the roots were charred,
And the ivy stems were bare.

The stranger up sprung: to the farmer he flung
A loud and friendly hail,

And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, And I'll buy it on the nail."

The twain in a trice agreed on the price;

The stranger his earnest paid,

And with horses and wain, to come for the grain, His own appointment made.

The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked

His way right merrily on :

He struck up a song, as he trudged along,
For joy that his job was done.

His children fair he danced in the air;
His heart with joy was big;

He kissed his wife; he seized a knife;
He slew a sucking-pig.

The faggots burned, the porkling turned

And crackled before the fire;

And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose

Of a passing ghostly friar.

He tirled at the pin, he entered in,

He sate down at the board;

The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed,

And the humming ale outpoured.

The friar laughed, the friar quaffed,
He chirped like a bird in May;

The farmer told, how his corn he had sold,

As he journeyed home that day.

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