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They might as well have addled been, or ratted,
Think of poor Burrell's shock, Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, And laid in death as Everlasting Layers, With Bantam’s small Ex-Emperor, the Cock, In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle! To see as stiff as stone, his un’live stock, It really was enough to move his block. Down on the floor he dashed, with horror big, Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig ; And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, Burst out with natural emphasis enough,
And voice that grief made tremble, Into that very speech of sad Macduff — “ What ! — all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop!
Just when I ’d bought a coop
After a little of this mood,
And brooding over the departed brood, With razor he began to ope each craw, Already turning black, as black as coals; When lo ! the undigested cause he saw
“ Pisoned by goles !”
To Mrs. Wr's luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction ; And by short course of circumstantial labor, He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbor ; Lord ! how he railed at her: declaring now, He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, Then, in another moment, swore a vow, He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory! She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard, Lapped in a paradise of tea and cream ; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream — “ Here 's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm
yard !” Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barber
Now birds by poison slain,
Are edible ; and Mrs. W's thrift,
She had a thrifty vein,-
Came up at a white heat — “Well, never I see chicken like them chicken! My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in
'em ! Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat Those Anti-biling Pills ! there is no bile in 'em !”
THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT.
“I like to meet a sweep - such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow."ESSAYS OF ELIA.
_"A voice cried Sweep no more !
One morning ere my usual time
Still linger in the street ;
And as I walked, I saw indeed
In height above five feet.
White overcoming jet.
He walked upon the fret :
Betrayed internal woe.
He gaped — but not a crow !
That hung about the lid;
And thus at last he did.
Well, here 's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act,
if ever there was a gagging!
But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in
doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to
the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make
signs and be regularly mum.
But they can't undo natur — as sure as ever the
morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out
Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley
pots that say Cheep ! For my own part I find my suppressed voice
very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your
tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us ! tho’ I suppose we
musn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if
I can earn either bit or sup! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond
quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughn't to
cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't
sympathize with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exact
·ly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we
to pursue our callings?