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ELL us not of bygone days!

Tell us not of forward times!

What's the future-what's the past

Save to fashion rhymes?

Show us that the corn doth thrive!

Show us there's no wintry weather!

Show us we may laugh and live-
(Those who love-together.)

Senses have we for sweet blossoms-
Eyes, which could admire the sun-
Passions blazing in our bosoms-

Hearts, that may be won!

But Labour doth for ever press us,

And Famine grins upon our board;

And none will help us, none will bless us,

With one gentle word!

None, none! our birthright or our fate,
Is hunger and inclement air-
Perpetual toil-the rich man's hate--

Want, scorn-the pauper's fare:

We fain would gaze upon the sky,
Lie pensive by the running springs;
But if we stay to gaze or sigh,

We starve-though the cuckoo sings!

The moon casts cold on us below;

The sun is not our own;

The very winds which fragrance blow,
But blanch us to the bone;

The rose for us ne'er shows its bloom,
The violet its blue eye;

From cradle murmuring to the tomb,
We feel no beauty, no perfume,

But only toil-and die!

PAUPER.

A TALE OF TEMPER.

IF all cross breeds of human sinners,

The crabbedest are those who dress our

dinners;

Whether the ardent fires at which they roast
And broil and bake themselves like Smithfield martyrs,
Are apt to make them crusty, like a toast,
Or drams, encouraged by so hot a post;
However, cooks are generally Tartars;
And altogether might be safely cluster'd
In scientific catalogues

Under two names, like Dinmont's dogs,
Pepper and Mustard.

The case thus being very common,

It followed, quite of course, when Mr. Jervis
Engaged a clever culinary woman,

He took a mere Xantippe in his service-
In fact her metal not to burnish,

As vile a shrew as Shrewsbury could furnish—
One who in temper, language, manners, looks,
In every respect

Might just have come direct

From him, who is supposed to send us cooks.

The very day she came into her place

She slapp'd the scullion's face;

The next, the housemaid being rather pert,

Snatching the broom, she "treated her like dirt"
The third, a quarrel with the groom she hit on-
Cyrus, the page, had half-a-dozen knocks;

And John, the coachman, got a box
He couldn't sit on.

Meanwhile, her strength to rally,

Brandy, and rum, and shrub she drank by stealth,
Besides the Cream of some mysterious Valley
That may, or may not, be the Vale of Health:
At least while credit lasted, or her wealth-
For finding that her blows came only thicker,
Invectives and foul names but flew the quicker,
The more she drank, the more inclined to bicker,
The other servants one and all,

Took Bible oaths whatever might befal,
Neither to lend her cash, nor fetch her liquor!

This caused, of course, a dreadful schism,
And what was worse, in spite of all endeavour,
After a fortnight of Tea-totalism,

The Plague broke out more virulent than ever!
The life she led her fellows down the stairs!
The life she led her betters in the parlour!
No parrot ever gave herself such airs,

No pug-dog cynical was such a snarler!

At woman, man, and child, she flew and snapp'd,
No rattlesnake on earth so fierce and rancorous—
No household cat that ever lapp'd

To swear and spit was half so apt

No bear, sore-headed, could be more cantankerous-
No fretful porcupine more sharp and crabbed-
No wolverine

More full of spleen

In short, the woman was completely rabid !

The least offence of look or phrase,

The slightest verbal joke, the merest frolic,

Like a snap-dragon set her in a blaze,
Her spirit was so alcoholic !

And woe to him who felt her tongue!
It burnt like caustic-like a nettle stung,
Her speech was scalding-scorching-vitriolic !
And larded, not with bacon fat,

Or anything so mild as that,

But curses so intensely diabolic,

So broiling hot, that he, at whom she levell'd,
Felt in his very gizzard he was devill'd!

Often and often Mr. Jervis

Long'd, and yet feared, to turn her from his service; For why? Of all his philosophic loads

Of reptiles loathsome, spiteful, and pernicious,
Stuff'd Lizards, bottled Snakes, and pickled Toads,
Potted Tarantulas, and Asps malicious,

And Scorpions cured by scientific modes,
He had not any creature half so vicious!

At last one morning

The coachman had already given warning,
And little Cyrus

Was gravely thinking of a new cockade,
For open War's rough sanguinary trade,
Or any other service, quite desirous,
Instead of quarrelling with such a jade-
When accident explain'd the coil she made,
And whence her Temper had derived the virus!

Struck with the fever, called the scarlet, The Termagant was lying sick in bed— And little Cyrus, that precocious varlet,

Was just declaring her "as good as dead,"

When down the attic stairs the housemaid, Charlotte,

Came running from the chamber overhead,

Like one demented;

Flapping her hands, and casting up her eyes,
And giving gasps of horror and surprise,

Which thus she vented

"O Lord! I wonder that she didn't bite us!