Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part, These going where the others went before, Of course she had a very pretty store; And then some hue of health her cheek adorning, The Medicine so good must be, They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morn ing." Till wanting room at last, for other stocks, Over the way Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble,— that is, John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, And twenty little Bantam fowls - with crops. Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings, To find the very things So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet. They might as well have addled been, or ratted, For long before the night ah woe betide The Pills! each suicidal Bantam died Unfatted! Think of poor Burrell's shock, Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, And voice that grief made tremble, Into that very speech of sad Macduff"What! — all my pretty chickens and their dam, Just when I'd bought a coop To see the poor lamented creatures cram!" After a little of this mood, And brooding over the departed brood, To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction; Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barber Can harbour; To dress the head and front of her offending, So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, Had nothing left but to sit hands across, And see her poultry "going down ten couple." Now birds by poison slain, As venomed dart from Indian's hollow cane, Are edible; and Mrs. W.'s thrift,— Destined one pair for supper to make shift,- But ten o'clock arrived and quickly passed, At length, the speed of cookery to quicken, "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! Macbeth hath murdered sweep."- SHAKSPEARE. ONE morning ere my usual time Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A mongrel tint he seemed to take; DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, From side to side he crossed oblique, And while he sought the dingy job, Το Betrayed internal woe. cry the cry he had by rote He yearned, but law forbade the note, He gaped but not a crow! I watched him, and the glimpse I snatched With red, as if the soot had catched That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging! |