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THE TWO STAMMERERS.

While others fluent verse abuse,
And prostitute the Comic Muse;
In less indecent manner,
Her Comic Ladyship will try.
Oh, let my prayer, bright maid, avail !
Grant inspiration to my taie,-
A tale both comical and new,
And with a swinging moral too.
In a small quiet country town
Lived Hob, a blunt, but honest clown;
Who, spite of all the schools could teach,
From habit, stammer'd in his speech;
And second nature soon, we're sure,
Confirm'd the case beyond a cure:
Ask him to say hot rolls and butter;
"A hag-a-gag," and "splitter-splutter,"
Stopp'd every word he strove to utter.
It happen'd once upon a time-
I word it thus to suit my rhyme;
For all our country neighbours know,
It can't be twenty years ago-
Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike,
Was busy delving at his dyke;
Which, let me not forget to say,
Stood close beside a public way;
And, as he lean'd upon his spade,
Reviewing o'er the work he'd made,
A youth, a stranger in that place,
Stood right before him, face to face.
"P-p-p-p-pray," says he,

"How f-f-f-far may't be,

"To-o"-the words would not come out"T-o Borough bridge, or thereabout?"

Our clown took huff; thrice hemm'd upon't, Then smelt a kind of an affront;

Thought he "This bluff, fool-hardy fellow, "A little crack'd perhaps, or mellow, "Knowing my tongue an inch too short, "Is come to fleer and make his sport.

"If me he means, or dares deride,
"By all that's good, I'll tan his hide!
"I'll dress his vile calf's skin in buff;
"And thrash it tender where 'tis tough."
Thus full resolved, he stood aloof,
And waited mute, for farther proof;
While t'other, in a kind of pain,
Applied him to his tongue again-
"Speak, friend; c-c-c-c-can you, pray,
"Sh-sh-sh-show me--on my-way;
"Nay, spe-e-ak !—I'll smoke thy bacon!
"You have a tongue; or I'm mistaken."
"Yes-th-th-that I-I-I-have;

"But not for y-y-you-you knave!"
"What!" cried the stranger; "wh-wh-what?
"D'ye mock me? T-t-take you that!"
"Huh! you mock-me!" quoth Hob amain,
"So t-t-take you that again !"

Then to't they fell, in furious plight;

While each one thought himself i' the right;

And, if ye dare believe my song,

They likewise thought each other wrong.

The battle o'er-and somewhat cool

Each half suspects himself a fool;

For, when to choler folks incline 'em,
Your argumentum baculinum,

Administer'd in dose terrific,

Was ever held a grand specific!

Each word the combatants now utter'd Conviction, brought that both dolts stutter'd, And each assumed a look as stupid

As after combat looks Don Cupid;

Each scratch'd his silly head, and thought,
He'd argue ere again he fought.

Hence I this moral shall deduce-
Would Anger deign to sign a truce,
Till Reason could discover truly
Why this mad Madam were unruly,
So well she could explain her words,
Men little use would find for swords.

THE SLAVE'S FIRST HOUR OF FREEDOM
AND HIS LAST.

In a far isle, girt by the Indian wave,
Stretch'd in his hut, lay an expiring slave;
Born to this lot-the whip and galling chain,
Long years of toil, indignity, and pain.
Want, and exposure to a burning sun,
Had worn his frame-the sands of life were run.
A hundred years his aged eyes had seen

Brown autumn's pride succeed the summer's green;
No joy to him the varied seasons gave-

Change as they would, they found him still a slave, Toiling for gold to feed some master's pride, Who squander'd wealth his negro's blood supplied. Bow'd down by time, unfit for toil at last, As some tall plantain crush'd beneath the blast, The old man lay-each giant sinew shrunk, Like wither'd ivy round his ruin'd trunk. Though helpless, wretched, yet he wished to live; Old as he was, life had one boon to give. Tidings had reach'd him o'er the distant wave, Britain had granted freedom to each slave. He pray'd for strength to wait the time whose knell Slavery's doom and Freedom's birth should tell The dial's hand was near the promised hour, When, faintly strugling with death's iron power, "Father!" he cried, "before whose throne on high "Is heard the negro's prayer, the negro's sigh,— "Let me but live to draw one freeman's breath, "To own no master, ere I sink in death: "And every wrong, each stripe and galling chain, "Man has inflicted on our race for gain,

"For that blest boon, by every hope of heaven,
"Shall from my secret soul be here forgiven!"
His prayer was heard-was it his faith ne'er failed?
Or charity or mercy that prevailed?

Rude and unletter'd, the poor dying slave
Practised the Christain's virtue-he forgave!
Soothed were his pains, calmly he sank to rest,
Like a lull'd infant on its mother's breast.

But, ere his spirit fled its earthly clay,
The night of slavery had passed away-

The dial struck. "I AM FREE !" the old man cried ;
"GOD'S WILL BE DONE!" then faintly smiled, and died.
Each toil and care for him for ever past,

The first sweet breath of freedom was his last.

SPEECH OF CATILINE

BEFORE THE ROMAN SENATE, ON HEARING HIS SENTENCE OF
BANISHMENT.

Banished from Rome! what's banished, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe ?
"Tried and convicted traitor !"-Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished!-I thank you for't. It breaks my chain !
I held some slack allegiance till this hour-
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings-withered hopes-
Strong provocations-bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you ;-here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.

Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks:
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.
"Traitor!" I go-but I return. This-trial!
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age;

Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.

This day's the birth of sorrows! This hour's work Will breed proscriptions-Look to your hearths, my

lords;

For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus !-all shames and crimes;Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's

cup;

Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave.

SCENE FROM "SPEED THE PLOUGH."
Sir Philip Blandford and Farmer Ashfield.

Sir Phil. Come hither. I believe you hold a farm of mine.

Ash. Ees, zur, I do, at your zarvice, Sir Phil. I hope a profitable one? Ash. Zometimes it be, zur. But thic year, it be a' t'other way as twur-but I do hope, as our landlord have a tightish big lump of the good, they'll be zo kind. hearted as to take a little bit of the bad.

Sir Phil. It is but reasonable.

you are in my debt.

I conclude, then

Ash. Ees, zur, I be-at your zarvice.
Sir Phil. How much?

Ash. Sir, I do owe ye a hundred and fifty poundsat your zarvice.

Sir Phil. Which you can't pay.

Ash. Not a farthing, zur-at your zarvice.

Sir Phil. Well, I am willing to give you every in. dulgence.

Ash. Be you, zur? that be deadly kind.-Dear heart! it will make my auld dame quite young again, and don't think helping a poor man will do your honour's health any harm-I don't indeed, zur-I had a thought of speaking to your worship about it--but then thinks I, the gentleman, mayhap, be one of those that do like to do a good turn, and not to have a word zaid about it--zo, if you had not mentioned what I owed you, I am zure never should-should not, indeed,

zur.

Sir Phil. Nay, I will wholly acquit you of the debt, on condition

Ash. Ees, zur.

Sir Phil. On condition, I say, you instantly turn out that boy-that Henry.

Ash. Turn out Henry! Ha, ha, ha! Excuse my tittering, zur; but you bees making your vun of I,

zure.

Sir Phil. I am not apt to trifle. Send him instantly from you, or take the consequences.

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