Moved by this logic (or appall'd)

To persons of a certain turn so proper,

The money came when call'd,

In silver, gold, and copper,

Presents from "Friends to blacks," or foes to whites, "Trifles," and "offerings," and "widow's mites," Plump legacies, and yearly benefactions,

With other gifts

And charitable lifts,

Printed in lists and quarterly transactions.
As thus-Elisha Brettel,
An iron kettle.

The Dowager Lady Scannel,

A piece of flannel.

Rebecca Pope,

A bar of soap.

The Misses Howels,

Half-a-dozen towels.

The Master Rush's,
Two scrubbing-brushes.

Mr. T. Groom,

A stable broom,

And Mrs. Grubb,

A tub.

Great were the sums collected !

And great results in consequence expected.

But somehow, in the teeth of all endeavour,
According to reports

At yearly courts,

The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

Yes! spite of all the water sous'd aloft,
Soap, plain and mottled, hard and soft,
Soda and pearlash, huckaback and sand,
Brooms, brushes, palm of hand,

And scourers in the office strong and clever,

In spite of all the tubbing, rubbing, scrubbing,

The routing and the grubbing,

The blacks, confound them! were as black as ever!

In fact in his perennial speech,

The Chairman own'd the niggers did not bleach,

As he had hoped,

From being washed and soaped,

A circumstance he named with grief and pity;
But still he had the happiness to say,

For self and the Committee,

By persevering in the present way

And scrubbing at the Blacks from day to day, Although he could not promise perfect white, From certain symptoms that had come to light, He hoped in time to get them gray!

Lull'd by this vague assurance,

The friends and patrons of the sable tribe
Continued to subscribe,

And waited, waited on with much endurance-
Many a frugal sister, thrifty daughter-

Many a stinted widow, pinching mother--
With income by the tax made somewhat shorter,
Still paid implicitly her crown per quarter,
Only to hear as ev'ry year came round,
That Mr. Treasurer had spent her pound;
And as she loved her sable brother,
That Mr. Treasurer must have another!

But, spite of pounds or guineas,

Instead of giving any hint

Of turning to a neutral tint,

The plaguy negroes and their piccaninnies
Were still the colour of the bird that caws-

Only some very aged souls

Showing a little gray upon their polls,

Like daws!

However, nothing dashed

By such repeated failures, or abashed,
The Court still met ;-the Chairman and Directors,
The Secretary, good at pen and ink,
The worthy Treasurer, who kept the chink,

And all the cash Collectors;

With hundreds of that class, so kindly credulous, Without whose help, no charlatan alive,

Or Bubble Company could hope to thrive,

Or busy Chevalier, however sedulous-
Those good and easy innocents in fact,
Who willingly receiving chaff for corn,
As pointed out by Butler's tact,
Still find a secret pleasure in the act
Of being pluck'd and shorn!

However, in long hundreds there they were,
Thronging the hot, and close, and dusty court,
To hear once more addresses from the Chair,
And regular Report.

Alas! concluding in the usual strain,

That what with everlasting wear and tear,
The scrubbing-brushes hadn't got a hair-
The brooms-mere stumps-would never serve again-
The soap was gone, the flannels all in shreds,
The towels worn to threads,

The tubs and pails too shatter'd to be mended-
And what was added with a deal of pain,

But as accounts correctly would explain,
Tho' thirty thousand pounds had been expended-
The Blackamoors had still been wash'd in vain !

"In fact, the negroes were as black as ink, Yet, still as the Committee dared to think,

And hoped the proposition was not rash,

A rather free expenditure of cash-"

But ere the prospect could be made more sunny-
Up jump'd a little, lemon-coloured man,

And with an eager stammer, thus began,

In angry earnest, though it sounded funny :

"What! More subscriptions! No-no-no,-not I!

You have had time-time-time enough to try!

They WON'T come white! then why-why-why-why-why More money?"

"Why!" said the Chairman, with an accent bland,

And gentle waving of his dexter hand,

"Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust, More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold

The why, sir, very easily is told,

Because Humanity declares we must!

We've scrubb'd the negroes till we've nearly killed 'em,

And finding that we cannot wash them white,

But still their nigritude offends the sight,
We mean to gild'em ?"

A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY.

NE day-I had it from a hasty mouth,
Accustom'd to make many blunders daily,
And therefore will not name, precisely,
South,

Herschell, or Baily—

But one of those great men who watch the skies,
With all their rolling, winking eyes,

Was looking at that Orb whose ancient God
Was patron of the Ode, and Song, and Sonnet,
When thus he musing cried—“It's very odd
That no Astronomer of all the squad
Can tell the nature of those spots upon it!

"Lord, master!" muttered John, a liveried elf,
"To wonder so at spots upon the sun!
I'll tell you what he's done-
Freckled himself!"

THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST.

A LONDON LEGEND.

JOMEWHERE in Leather Lane-
I wonder that it was not Mincing,
And for this reason most convincing,
That Mr. Brain

Dealt in those well-minced cartridges of meat
Some people like to eat-

However, all such quibbles overstepping,

In Leather Lane he lived; and drove a trade
In porcine sausages, though London made,
Call'd "Epping."

Right brisk was the demand,

Seldom his goods stay'd long on hand,
For out of all adjacent courts and lanes,
Young Irish ladies and their swains-
Such soups of girls and broths of boys !—
Sought his delicious chains,
Preferr'd to all polonies, saveloys,

And other foreign toys—
The mere chance passengers
Who saw his "sassengers,"

Of sweetness undeniable,

So sleek, so mottled, and so "friable,” Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought, And bought.

Meanwhile a constant thumping

Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping-
Incessant was the noise!

But though he had a foreman and assistant,
With all the tools consistent,

(Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys)
His means were not yet vast enough

For chopping fast enough

To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages, For first-chop "sassages."

However, Mr. Brain

Was none of those dull men and slow,
Who, flying bird-like by a railway train,
Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago;
He did not set his face 'gainst innovations
For rapid operations,

And therefore in a kind of waking dream
Listen'd to some hot-water sprite that hinted
To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was printed,
By steam!

Accordingly in happy hour,

A bran-new Engine went to work

Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork

With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power,
And wonderful celerity-