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I hate all those pleasures we're angling and squar-¡to engross the conversation, he was appointed And fitting and cutting by rules;

And dam'me-dear me, I beg pardon for swearing,

All that follow such fashions are fools.

They may say what they list on't,
But of life, I insist on't,

That pleasure's the prop and the staff,
That sets every muscle,
In a comical bustle,

And tickles one into a laugh.

For since pleasure, &c.

THE MERIT OF BLOOD.

[ing, orator of the republic; if he spoke improperly, occasion was taken from his subject to appoint him a suitable employment; if, for instance, he talked about dogs, he was made master of the buck-hounds; if he boasted of his courage, he was made a knight, or perhaps a field-marshal; and if he expressed a bigotted zeal for any spe culative opinion in religion, he was made an inquisitor. The offenders being thus distinguished for their follies, and not their wisdom, gave occasion to the Germans to call the republic "The Society of Fools." The King of Poland, one day, asked Psamka, if they had chosen a king in their republic? To which he replied, "God forbid that we should think of electing a king while your majesty lives; your majesty will always be King of Babine, as well as Poland." The king inquired farther, to what extent their republic reached ? "Over the whole world," says Psamka; "for we are told, by David, that all men are liars." This society soon increased so much, that there was scarce any person at court who was not honoured with some post in it; and its chiefs were also in high favour with the king. TOWN AND COUNTRY.

When Sheriff Phillips told Sir John Silvester, the Recorder of London, that his court in the Old Bailey smelt of blood." I'm glad of it," replied Black Jack, in his stern way, "for it will thereby keep away the rogues and thieves."

IN HENDON CHURCH-YARD.
T. Crosfield,

Died November 8th, 1808.

Beneath this stone Tom Crosfield lies,
Who cares not now who laughs or cries;
He laughed when sober, and when mellow,
Was a harum-scarum harmless fellow;
He gave to none design'd offence,
So Honi soit qui mal y pense.

REPUBLIC OF BABINE:

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In London I never know what to be at,
Enraptured with this, and transported with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for man.
But the country, Lord bless us, sets all matters
right,

There was, at the court of Sigismund Augustus, a gentleman of the family of Psamka, who, in concert with Peter Cassovius, bailiff of Lublin, formed a society which the Polish writers call So calm and composing from morning till night; "The Republic of Babine;" and which the Ger- Oh! it settles the stomach when nothing is seen mans denominate The Society of Fools." This But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. society had its king, its chancellor, its counsellors, its archbishops, bishops, judges, and other In London how easy we visit and meet, officers. When any of the members did or said Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are any thing at their meetings, which was unbecoming or ill-timed, they immediately gave him a place, of which he was required to perform the duties, till another was appointed in his stead; fer example, if any one spoke too much, so us

our treat

Our mornings, a round of good-humour'd delight,
And we rattle in comfort and pleasure all night.
In the country how pleasant our visits to make,
Through ten miles of mud for formality's sake,

Tith the coachman in drink, and the moon in a | Yet it's charming to hear, just from boardingfog,

And no thought in our heads but a ditch or a bog.
In London, if folks ill together be put,
A bore may be roasted, a quiz may be cut.-
In the country, your friends would feel angry and

sore,

Call an old maid a quiz, or a parson a bore,

In the country, you're nail'd like a pale in your park,

To some stick of a neighbour cramm'd into the ark:
Or if you are sick, or in fits tumble down,
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you
from town.

I've heard that how love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet;

I know nothing of that, for, alas! I'm a swain Who require (and I own it) more links to my chain. Your jays and your magpies may chatter on trees, And whisper soft nonsense in groves if they please; But a house is much more to my mind than a tree, And for groves-Oh! a fine grove of chimneys

for me.

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school come,

A hoyden tune up an old family strum; She'll play God save the King," with an excellent tone,

With the sweet variation of "Old Bobbing Joan.” But what though your appetite's in a weak state? A pound at a time they will put on your plate, It's true, as to health you've no cause to complain, For they'll drink it, God bless'em, again and

again.

Then in town let me live, and in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I;
If I must have a villa in London to dwell,
Oh! give me the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall.

THE IRISH EATING-HOUSE.

This is to acquaint the whole world, and all my good friends in Kilkenny into the bargain, that I, Bryan Mullorony, late of Bread-street, and formerly of Pudding-lane, do intend to open an is well-known that the belly is a monster, that Eating-house in Swallow-street. And whereas it has no ears, and, therefore, it is mere waste of windpipe to be talking to it; and if the guts once begin to grumble, if you should even swallow the whole riot-act, it wont settle them half so soon as a clumsy piece of boiled beef, or a slice of plumpudding, he has, therefore, prepared dishes for all appetites and for all nations. He knows very well that a large troop of his own countrymen are annually imported every year, duty free, like as to reap down the harvest; and, as they are their own Irish linen, as well to keep up the breed lads of keen appetite, he has prepared a dainty

dish for all such maws. This dish he calls the all description thrown into it, viz. shins of beef, General Post-office, because there are letters of clods, marrow, hogs-pudding, chitterlings, with a train of et cæteras as long as the tail of a paper kite. For those that can afford to send nice bits down Red-Lion-passage, he has prepared a table as long as the board of longitude, that will always

N.B. Fine roast pork, that would tempt a Jew, every day at one o'clock.

IN LAMBETH CHURCH-YARD,

On William Wilson, a troublesome Tailor.
Here lies the body of W. W.

Who never more will trouble you, trouble you,
THE CAMBRIDGE SCHOLAR.

In the days that are past, on the banks of a stream,
Whose waters but softly were flowing,

be found covered with legs of mutton, shouldering |mourning, or those that have business on both each other, with some bones to be picked at sides of the street, as he does not wish to have any second-hand very cheap. He also intends to esta-meandering of that kind in his house. Those that blish a cut-finger club for the use of shoe-blacks, wish to eat against time, to pay one shilling anewsmen, nightmen, &c. and one of the rules of head, provided they don't bolt, and in that case this club will be, that if any one should happen eighteen-pence. A bill of fare, as long as a by choice or chance to swallow another fellow's Welsh pedigree, will be written out every day, finger, or the joint of a finger, he is to pay one-with a clean table-cloth once a quarter, for the penny. Those that intend to stow in three din-use of those that like to dine genteely, with every ners at once, are to pay by the pound, twelve genteel accommodation; but no tripe at night, pound to the dozen, butter weight. And whereas and heels in the morning. The young Newlands there are some pale thin-looking fellows, with will be always welcome. crane-necks, that would demolish a shoulder of mutton at one sitting, they are to pay according to the damages they have committed; and as the Irish are very fond of working at the wet-dock, he has laid in a large quantity of small-beer, of so fine a quality that it will wrestle even with some of your porter, though it should get into a passion, and foam as much as it pleases; but his dear countrymen must know, that he will not keep a floating account with any one of them, nor take a duplicate in pay for any one of them, even though it should be backed by his honour. As to Scotchmen, who wish to cheat their guts, and to amuse their teeth, he has prepared for them that dish so well known north of the Tweed, namely, a haggis, with black-pudding as tough as Indian-rubber; and, as an empty sack can't stand, be is resolved that the substantial only shall appear on his tables. None of your French slops, with a little piece of beef, and an ocean of soup, like a small island in a lake; no syrup of cinders, no jelly of pipe stopples, or quaking puddings, that will tremble at the sight of a knife or a spoon. And as it sometimes happens that those who frequent Eating-houses often mistake their pocket for their mouth, and, as it is a pity that the belly should be defrauded of its due, he requests all such to take notice of this hint, and to be careful that they do not commit such mistakes. He has also fitted up a room for the use of ladies, but he wishes that it may be publicly known, that no woman is to be admitted in half

With ivy o'ergrown, an old mansion house stood,
That was built on the skirts of a chilling damp
wood,

Where the yew tree and cypress were growing.
The villagers shook as they pass'd by the doors,
When resting at eve from their labours,
And the trav'ller full many a furlong went round,
If his ears once admitted the terrific sound

Of the tale that was told by the neighbours.
They said that the house on the skirts of the woed
By a saucer-ey'd ghost was infested,

Which fill'd ev'ry heart with confusion and fright,
By assuming strange shapes in the dead of the
night,

Shapes monstrous and foul, and detested.
And truly they said, for the master well knew,
That this ghost was the greatest of evils,
For no sooner the bell of the mansion toll'd one,
Than this frolicsome imp in a fury begun
To caper like ten thousand devils.

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THE LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

He appeared in all forms the must strange and | Bring some turnips and milk, the scholar he cried, uncouth,

Sure no goblin was ever so daring,

He utter'd loud shrieks, and most horrible cries, Cers'd his body and boues, and his sweet little eyes,

'Till his impudence grew beyond bearing.

Just at this nick o'time, as the master's sad heart
With sorrow and anguish was swelling,
He heard that a scholar, with science replete,
Full of mystical lore as an egg is of meat,
Had taken at Cambridge a dwelling.

The scholar was vers'd in all mystical arts,
Most famous was he throughout college,
To the Red Sea full many an unquiet ghost,
To repose with King Pharoah, and his mighty host,
He had sent, thro' his powerful knowledge.

To this scholar so learned, the master he went,
And so lowly he bent with submission,
Told the freaks of the ghost, and the horrible
frights,

That prevented his household from sleeping
o'nights,

Then offer'd this humble petition.

That he, the said scholar, in wisdom so wise,
Would this mischievous ghost lay in fetters,
And send him in torments for ever to dwell,
In the nethermost pit of the nethermost hell,
For destroying the sleep of his betters.
This scholar, so vers'd in all mystical lore,

Told the master his prayer should be granted,
Then order'd his horse to be saddled with speed,
And perch'd on the back of his cream-colour'd

steed,

Trotted off to the house that was haunted.

He enter'd the house at the fall of the night,
The trees of the forest 'gan shiver,

The hoarse raven croak'd, and blue burnt the
light,

The owl loudly shriek'd, and pale with affright,
The servants like aspens did quiver.

In a voice like the echoing thunder;
They brought him some turnips, and suet beside,
Some milk and a spoon, and his motions they ey'd,
Quite lost in conjecture and wonder.

He took up the turnips-he par'd off the skin,
Put them into a pot that was boiling,
Spread a table and cloth, and made ready to sup,
Then call'd for a fork, and the turnips fish'd up
In a hurry, for they were a spoiling

He mash'd up the turnips with butter and milk,
The hail at the casement 'gan clatter;
The scholar ne'er heeded the tempest without,
But raising his eyes, and turning about,

Ask'd the maid for a small wooden-platter.
He mash'd up the turnips with butter and milk,
The storm came on thicker and faster,
The blue lightings flash'd and with terrific din,
The rain at each crevice and cranny crept in,
Tearing up by the root lath and plaster.
He mash'd up the turnips with butter and milk,
The mess would have ravish'd a glutton,
When, lo! his sharp bones scarcely cover'd his
skin,

The ghost from the nook o'er the window peep'd
in,

In the form of a boil'd scrag of mutton.
"what art doing

66 Oh, ho!" cried the ghost,

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WATCHMAKER'S EPITAPH,

On a Tomb in Berkeley church-yard, Gloucestershire.
Here !yeth Thomas Peirce, whom no man taught,
Yet he in iron, brasse, and silver wrought.
He jacks and clocks, and watches (with art)
made

And mended too, when others work did fade.
Of Berkeley five tymes maior this artist was,
And yet this major, this artist was but grasse:
When his owne watch was downe on the last day,
He that made watches had not made a key
To wind it up, but uselesse it must lie
Until he rise again no more to die.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

At Number One dwelt Captain Drew,
George Benson dwelt at Number Two;

(The street we'll not now mention) The latter stunn'd the King's Bench bar, The former, being lamed in war,

Sung small upon a pension.

Tom Blewit knew them both-than he
None deeper in the mystery

Of culinary knowledge;

From turtle soup to Stilton cheese,
Apt student, taking his degrees
In Mrs. Rundell's college.
Benson to dine invited Tom;
Proud of an invitation from

A host who" spread" so nicely,
Tom answer'd, ere the ink was dry,
Extremely happy-come on Fri-
Day next, at six precisely."

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To pass were downright treason ; To cut Ned Benson's not quite staunch ; But the provocative—a haunch!

Zounds! it's the first this season!
"Ven'son, thou'rt mine! I'll talk no more-
Then, rapping thrice at Benson's door,
"John, I'm in such a hurry!

Do tell your master that my aunt
Is paralytic, quite aslant,

I must be off for Surrey."

Now Tom at next door makes a din

"Is Captain Drew at home?"-" Walk in-" "Drew, how d'ye do?"-" What! Blewit!" "Yes, 1-you've ask'd me, many a day, To drop in, in a quiet way,

So now I'm come to do it."

"I'm very glad you have," said Drew, "I've nothing but an Irish stew-"

Quoth Tom (aside) "No matter, 'Twon't do-my stomach's up to that, 'Twill lie by, till the lucid fat

Comes quiv'ring on the platter."

"You see your dinner, Tom," Drew cried, No, but I don't though," Tom replied;

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"Ismok'd below," "What?"-" Ven'son, A haunch"-" Oh! true, it is not mine; My neighbour has some friends to dine:-"

"Your neighbour! who?" George Benson, "His chimney smoked; the scene to change, I let him have my kitchen range

While his was newly polish'd:
The Ven'son you observed below,
Went home just half an hour ago:
I guess it's now demolish'd.

"Tom, why that look of doubtful dread!
Come, help yourself to salt and bread,
Don't sit with hands and knees up;
But dine, for once, off Irish stew,
And read the Dog and Shadow' through,
When next you open Esop."

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