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You heed nor one nor t'other,
But onwards go your beat;
While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

'And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

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Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him His flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited

To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are strongest,
The witty are not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize.

'And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold-
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold.

Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to feel distress,

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Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.

March on your road is open

To wealth, Tom, and success.

• Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust'
(I' faith,' says Ned, our father
Is less polite than just,')

'In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.

'Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,

My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents.

I leave to you, my

Thomas'

(What, all?' poor Edward said, Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.')

'I leave to you, my Thomas,

To you IN TRUST for Ned.'

The wrath and consternation,
What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage

Came o'er Prince Tom his face;

The wonder of the company

And honest Ned's amaze?

'Tis surely some mistake,' Good-naturedly cries Ned;

The lawyer answered gravely, 'Tis even as I said;

'Twas thus his gracious Majesty Ordain'd on his deathbed.

'See here the will is witness'd,
And here's his autograph.'
• In truth our father's writing,'
Says Edward, with a laugh;
'But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom;
We'll share it half and half.'

'Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing cannot be;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
“I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.

"He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property

Who knows not how to spend it.

“Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard;

Let Thomas be the steward then,

And Edward be the lord;

And as the honest labourer

Is worthy his reward,

"I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear,

G

Το pay to his intendant

Five hundred pounds a year,
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer.'

Such was old Brentford's honest testament.
He did devise his money for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent ;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd,
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney,
Kew,

But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.

And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward

Was very much the richer of the two.

W. M. Thackeray.

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HAMELIN Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,

;

Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, the kegs of salted sprats,

Split open

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

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III

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

'Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation-shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robes ease?
Rouse up, sirs! give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

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