OUR Village, that 's to say not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle, there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! 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 drown'd 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. ΤΟ The Green Man is reckon'd 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 church-yard there's a stone-mason'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. 20 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 paper'd inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks 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 teaplant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; 30 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, shockheaded 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 plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, 40 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, bats, 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 rat-catcher, a cobler, 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 Case, as the case is, many time with folks Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say Case wore the liver's livery that such Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner, And homeward turning his Hibernian thought, Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet, But Pompey always read these bloody journals, In fact, he read of burner and of killer, And Irish ravages, day after day, Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say, Judge then the horror of the nigger's face To find-with such impressions of that diṛe land— For Ireland! He saw in fearful reveries arise, Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men He felt himself piked, roasted,-carv'd and hack'd, A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles,— Oh, how he wish'd himself beneath the sum Of Afric-or in far Barbadoes-one Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles. Full of this fright, With broken peace and broken English choking, 'O Massa!-Massa !-Colonel !-Massa Case !— Not go to Ireland !—Ireland dam bad place; To have him life? -Here Pompey made a stop, 50 60 70 'Not go to Ireland-not to Ireland, fellow, And murder'd-why should I be murder'd, Sirrah ? ' Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow,— Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan,— 'Well, what has that to do-quick-speak outright, boy?' 80 'O Massa '-(so the explanation ran) 'Massa be killed-'cause Massa Orange Man, And Pompey killed-'cause Pompey not a White Boy!' THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD I SAWE a Mayd sitte on a Bank, All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde The Momente that her Care was drownd! TO FANNY 'Gay being, born to flutter.'-Sale's Glee. Is this your faith, then, Fanny ! Not of many, but the One! Last night you smil'd on all, Ma'am, I thought that of the Sogers (As the Scotch say) one might do, 10 20 Major Powderum-Major Dowdrum- Deuce take it! when the regiment I went, as loving man goes, To admire thee in quadrilles ; On the lay of Love to touch; You once-ere you contracted 30 |