RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER. This is a correct copy of a little poem which has been often printed, and not quite accurately. It first appeared, many years ago, in the "Globe" and "Traveller," and was suggested by a speech in which Mr. Wilberforce, replying to an observation of Dr. Lushington, that "the Society for the Suppresion of Vice meddled with the poor alone," said that "the offences of the poor came more under observation than those of the rich:"-T. L. P. These lines were published in the "Examiner" of August, 1831. They were then called an anticipation. They may now be fairly en titled a prophecy fulfilled.-T. L. P., 1837. L O! in Corruption's lumber-room, The remnants of a wondrous broom, Proved but a stump without a brush. Like Brahma's looked four ways at once: Whereof said sconce did ne'er intend Wherewith the Devil paves his floor. BYP AND NOP. Promotion BY PURCHASE and by NO PURCHASE; or a Dialogue between Captain A. and Colonel Q. Q UOTH Byp to Nop, "I made my hop Quoth Nop to Byp, "I made my skip Quoth Nop to Byp, "You'll never trip Quoth Byp to Nop, "You'll never drop With such a tail to hold by." [N.B. Byp, for by purchase, and Nop, for no purchase, are the common official abbreviations in all returns of promotions, and ring the changes through long columns of Parliamentary papers.] VOL. III. 17 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. [Published in 1861 (Bentley's Ballads)]. LD Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall, His station he took, but in vain did he look Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, Then home he went, sore discontent, And many an oath he swore, And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse, Next market-day, he drove away No bidder he found, and he stood astound At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone, Each man his several way. He stalked by his load, along the road; His face with wrath was red: His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed His face was red, and fierce was his tread, "My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, If he'll my chapman be." These words he spoke, just under an oak, Seven hundred winters old; And he straight was aware of a man sitting there, The roots rose high, o'er the greensward dry, All scorched was the spot, as gypsy pot The grass was marred, the roots were charred, The stranger up sprung: to the farmer he flung And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, And I'll buy it on the nail." The twain in a trice agreed on the price; The stranger his earnest paid, And with horses and wain, to come for the grain, His own appointment made. The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked His way right merrily on : He struck up a song, as he trudged along, His children fair he danced in the air; He kissed his wife; he seized a knife; The faggots burned, the porkling turned And crackled before the fire; And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose Of a passing ghostly friar. He tirled at the pin, he entered in, He sate down at the board; The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, And the humming ale outpoured. The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, He chirped like a bird in May; The farmer told, how his corn he had sold, As he journeyed home that day. |