Then their cash was strange,
It bored me every minute,
Now here's a hog to change,
How many sows are in it!


Never go to France,
Unless you know the lingo ;
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo ;
Staring like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy!


OUR village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's vil

lage, 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 sim

ilar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three

ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned 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. The Green Man is reckoned 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 post

chaise.” 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 churchyard, there's a stonemason's yard, that when the time is season


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. 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 stut

ters 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

papered inside as out, For billstickers won't beware, but stick 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 tea-plant with five

black leaves and one green.

As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honey

suckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages,

a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dande

lions, 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 shock-headed 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 plumb

er's, and a small green-grocer's, and a baker, 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, 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 rat

catcher, 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 !


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,
Ilad 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,


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