One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, batts, 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 ratcatcher, a cobbler, 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
The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black,
May form a notion of old Colonel Case
With nigger Pompey waiting at his back.

Case, as the case is, many time with folks
From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay,
Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say,
And showed two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks.
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block,

In hue was like his master's stiff cravat,

And might indeed have claimed akin to that,
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.

Case wore the liver's livery that such
Must wear, their past excesses to denote,
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much,
And then do penance in a yellow coat.
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye,
A stain of nature's staining one of those
We call fast colours merely, I suppose,
Because such colours never go or fly.

Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow.

The Colonel, once a pennyless beginner,
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner,
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket,

And homeward turning his Hibernian thought,
Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.

Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet,
Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot,
A fact recorded in each day's diurnals,
Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news;

But Pompey always read these bloody journals,
Full of Killmany and of Killmore work,

The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly,

Of morning frays by some O'Brien Burke,
Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly;
How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle,
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it,
And if he found an infant in the cradle

Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it;

In fact, he read of burner and of killer,

And Irish ravages, day after day,

Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say,
That" Pompey could not sleep on Pompey's Pil-

He saw in fearful reveries arise,

Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men
Whose fame associate with Irish plots is,
Fitzgeralds Tones - O'Connors - Hares-

and then

"Those Emmets," not so "little in his eyes"

As Doctor Watts's!

[hacked,

He felt himself piked, roasted, carved and
His big black burly body seemed in fact
A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles, -

Oh, how he wished himself beneath the sun

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,
As black as any raven and as croaking,
Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight,
Plumped on his knees, and clasped his sable

digits,

Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets

"O Massa! - Massa! Colonel !

-

Massa

Ireland dam bad place;

Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life?"

stop,

Here Pompey made a

Putting an awful period to existence.

"Not go to Ireland

not to Ireland, fellow, why should I be murdered,

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

right, boy?

quick

speak out

"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,
Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond;

And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank,
Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond!

All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist,
For She was fayre and He was Kinde;
The Sunne went down before She wist
Another Sonne had sett behinde !

With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe

Past being Whipt for fallynge in.

She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde
With Shrikes that Echo answered round
O! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde

The Momente that her Care was drownd!