The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal,
Soon put his spoke in for the common weal-
A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban,-
The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded,
And then unfolded,
By way of climax, Mrs. Davy's turban;
He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding
Knocked down a lot without a bidding,-
How Mr. Miles, in fright, had given his mare,
The whip she wouldn't bear,—
At Prospect House, how Dr. Oates, not Titus,
Danced like Saint Vitus,-
And Mr. Beak, thro' Powder's misbehaving,
Cut off his nose whilst shaving;-
When suddenly, with words that seemed like swearing,
Beyond a Licenser's belief or bearing
Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gam
"Who is to pay us, Sir"—he argued thus, "For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus~-~~ Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-dam-damage?”
Now many a person had been fairly puzzled
By such assailants, and completely muzzled;
Baker, however, was not dashed with ease-
But proved he practised after their own system,
And with small ceremony soon dismissed 'em,
Putting these words into their ears like fleas;
"If I do have a blow, well, where's the oddity?
I merely do as other tradesmen do,
You, Sir, and you-and you!
I'm only puffing off my own commodity!"
"I'll be your second."-LISTON.
IN Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.
But Brown and stout will both wear out,
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widowed wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.
Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax ;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.
With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing thus came about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church he asked her out!"
Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand.
One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!
"Oh Mrs. B., oh Mrs. B.!
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame,
To burn your widow's weeds?
"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory-like Rogers's,
Should still be bound in green!
"Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt-
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not,
With all the leaves torn out !
"To think that on that finger joint,
Another pledge should cling;
Oh Bess! upon my very soul,
It struck like Knock and Ring.'
"A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, Ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in my urn!
"Remember, oh! remember, how
The marriage 'rite did run,-
If ever we one flesh should be,
'Tis now-when I have none !
"And you, Sir-once a bosom friend-
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider you are kicked.
"A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up!-you marry Ma'am,
And I'll come up again."
More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow, and off he went,
Like fowling-piece at cock!
FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL.
OH, Mrs. Hengler !—Madame,-I beg pardon
Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden!
Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff-
The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz,
Whose squibs are far more popular than his;
Whose works are much more certain to go off.
Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame;
With many a bang the public ear it courts;
And yet thy arrogance we never blame,
But take thy merits from thy own reports.
Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers,
We make no doubting, misbelieving comments,
Even in thy most bounceable of moments;
But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers!—
Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing,
Thy Rockets raise thee,
And Serpents praise thee,
As none beside are ever praised by hissing:
Mistress of Hydropyrics,
Of glittering Pindaries, Sapphics, Lyrics,
Professor of a Fiery Necromancy,
Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts
With midnight sports,
Partaking very much of flash and fancy!
What thoughts had shaken all
In olden time at thy nocturnal revels,—
Each brimstone ball,
They would have deemed an eyeball of the
Devil's!
But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright; A modern Hubert to the royal ear,
Might whisper without fear,
My Lord, they say there were five moons to night!"
Nor would it raise one superstitious notion
To hear the whole description fairly out:
"One fixed-which t'other four whirled round about
Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven,
Between the hours of midnight and eleven,
Turning our English to Arabian Nights,
With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons,
Blue stars and white,
And blood-red light,
And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters' wagons.
Thrice lucky woman! doing things that be
With other folks past benefit of parson;
For burning, no Burn's Justice falls on thee,
Altho' night after night the public see
Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson!
Sure thou wast never born
Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head,
Nor lectured night and morn
Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread,
Allowed by a prophetic dam and sire
To play with fire.
O didst thou never, in those days gone by,
|