THE PARSON, THE SQUIRE, AND THE SPANIEL.
A TALE.

A gentleman possessed a favourite spaniel,
That never treated maid nor man ill:
This dog, of which we cannot too much say,
Got from his godfather the name of Tray.
After ten years of service just,

Tray, like the race of mortals, sougnt the dust--
That is to say, the spaniel died:
A coffin then was ordered to be made,
The dog was in the church-yard laid,
While o'er his pale remains the master cried :
Lamenting much his trusty fur-clad friend,
And willing to commemorate his end,

He raised a small blue stone, just after burial,
And weeping, wrote on it this sweet memorial:
Tray's Epitaph.

Here rest the relics of a friend below,
Blessed with more sense than half the folks I know;
Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone,

He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnawed his bone;
Performed his functions well in every way-
Blush, Christians, if you can, and copy Tray.

The curate of the Huntingtonian band,

Rare breed of gospel-hawks that scour the land,

And fierce on sins their quarry fall,
Those locusts, that would eat up all:
Men who, with new-invented patent eyes,
See heaven and all the angels in the skies;
As plain as in the box of showman Swiss,
For little master made, or curious miss,
We see with huge delight the king of France
With all his lords and ladies dance.

This curate heard th' affair with deep emotion,
And thus exclaimed, with infinite devotion:

"O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! O Lord!
This, truly, is a very pretty thing!
Fine doings, these, upon my word!

What will become of this most shocking world?' How richly such a rogue deserves to swing,

And then to Satan's hottest flames be hurled! "Oh! by this damned deed how I am hurried, A dog in Christian ground, indeed, be buried! And have an epitaph forsooth, so civil: Egad! old maids will presently be found Clapping their dead ram cats in holy ground,

And writing verses on each mousing devil." Against such future casualty providing, The priest set off, like Homer's Neptune, striding, Vowing to put the culprit in the court: He found him at the spaniel's humble grave; Not praying, neither singing of a stave;

And thus began t' abuse him, not exhort,"Son of the devil, what hast thou done? Nought for the action can atone

I should not wonder if the Great All-wise Quick darted down his lightning all so red, And dashed to earth that wretched head,

Which dared so foul, so base an act devise.

Bury a dog like Christian folk!None but the fiend of darkness could provoke A man to perpetrate a deed so odd: Our inquisition soon the tale shall hear, And quickly your fine fleece shall shear;

Why, such a villain can't believe in God." "Softly, my reverend sir," the squire replied,— Tray was as good a dog as ever died—

No education could his morals mend. And what, perhaps, sir, you may doubt, Before his lamp of life went out,

He ordered you a legacy, my friend."

"Did he ?-poor dog!" the softened priest rejoined, In accents pitiful and kind ;

"What! was it Tray? I'm sorry for poor Tray.
Why, truly dogs of such rare merit,
Such real nobleness of spirit,

Should not like common dogs be put away.
"Well, pray what was it that he gave,
Poor fellow, e'er he sought the grave?

I guess I may put confidence, sir, in ye." "A piece of gold," the gentleman replied."I'm much obliged to Tray," the parson cried; So left God's cause, and pocketed the guinea.

CUMBERLAND'S INGRATITUDE.

Mr. Cumberland being asked his opinion of Mr. Sheridan's School for Scandal, said, "I am astonished that the town can be so duped! I went to see his comedy, and never laughed once from beginning to end."-This being repeated to SheridanThat's d-d ungrateful of him," cried he, " for I went to see his tragedy the other night, and did nothing but laugh from beginning to end."

THE PRAISE OF POTATOES. A BURLESQUE.

Hail, rare potatoes! hot or cold, all hail!
O quickly come mine appetite's delight!
Whether in oven's fiery concave clos'd,
By bakers' art delicious thou'rt embrown'd
While rills of purple gravy from the pores
Of mighty beef improve the luscious fare.
Whether the dame of culinary skill
Have rudely scalp'd thee o'er, and to the rage
Of warring elements consign thee deep,
Beneath the cope of air-excluding lid

In humid durance plung'd. Or when with steaks
Of marbled vein, from rump of stall-fed steer
Disparted late-slic'd in the shallow pan
I view thee kindly strew'd, how joys my heart!
How flash with eager glance my longing eyes!
Or in the tedious eve, when nipping frost

Reigns potent, 'mid the smould'ring embers roast
(From subterranean store selected) those
Of amplest size rotund, of native coat

Yet unbereft-and if my homely board
Penurious, add but few salubrious grains
Of humble salt, I bless the cheap repast!-
But chiefly come at noon-tide hunger's call,
When from th' ebullient pot your mealy tribe,
With happiest art concoct, profusely pours;
And be the mass with butter's plenteous aid
To rich consistence wrought: nor oh! withhold
The pepper's pungent pow'r, of grateful glow
Beneficent! lest my insatiate claim
Ventose and wat'ry, cause the twinging gripe
Of cholic pang abdominal!--And here
Need I relate how when for thee I slight
Thy rival roots and poignant sauces rare
Crown'd with exotic name, my humble choice,
Meck'd with rude insult, wakes the latent spark
Of witling's fire-a feeble, glowworm ray
That beams, not burns! Nor feels my injur'd

taste

(Taste undeprav'd by fashion's varying art)
Alone the shaft, but person, fortune, fame,
All, all, invidious scann'd, with sneer malign
And scoff sarcastic.- In the pudding's praise
Let others rant loquacious-I despise
The doughy morsel for my fav'rite food.
Give me but this, ye gods! scornful I pass
Each celebrated shop- -(Williams, or Birch,
Or he of Belgic fame-idol supreme
Of city saint in city-hall ador'd!-

By mortals Hoffman hight) - where brittle puffs
Multangular-with custards, cakes, and creams,
And lucid jellies nodding o'er the brim

Of crystal vase, in pastry pomp combine

To lure the sense. These, these, unmov'd I pass, While fond I antedate potatoes' charms,

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind."

EPITAPH ON A MRS. DEATH.

Here lies Death's wife; when this way next you tread, Be not surpris'd should Death himself be dead,

win it, and so I lost it." "But," added he, turning himself slowly round," who is the fool that asked me this question?"

AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS,

As want of candour really is not right,
I own my satire too inclined to bite :
Now shall she praise, and try to make it
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup-
up.
Why will the simple world expect wise things,
From lofty folks, particularly kings?

Look on their poverty of education!
Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods,
And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation. They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind Immured, they doze in ignorance and state. Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend little with their subjects to unbend!

CURRAN'S SHIRT.

Curran, while at college, was called before the board for wearing a dirty shirt. I pleaded," said he," inability to wear a clean one, and I told their reverences the story of poor Lord Avonmore, at that time Barry Yelverton. I wish, mother,' said Barry, I had eleven shirts.'-' Eleven! Barry, why eleen - Because, mother, I am of opinion that a gentleman, to be comfortable, ought to have a dozen.' Poor Barry had but one, and I made the precedent my justification."

An iustance take :-A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,

Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the monarch's guide;
Incog. they travelled, shuffling side by side;
And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his silken gown,
And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,

Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay:

Looking the frightened verger through and through, What, what, sir?-hey, sir?" deigned the king to All with his eye-glass-" Well, sir, who are you?

say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing; Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."

"Hey? verger! verger!-you the verger?- hey?" "Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be." The verger answered with the mildest mien. Then turned the king about towards the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,

lord?"

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.
"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried :

Sixpence would handsomely requite him." Poor verger, veiger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him-no won't knight him."

Now to the lofty roof the king did raise
His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise!
For thus his marvelling majesty did speak:
"Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete;
High-high and lofty too, and clean, and neat :
What, verger, what? mop, mop it once a week?"
"An't please your majesty." with marvelling chops,
The verger answered," we have got no mops

In Salisbury that will reach so high."
"Not mop, no, no, not mop it ?" quoth the king
"No sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing;

They might as well pretend to scrub the sky." From Salisbury church to Wilton-house, so grand, Returned the mighty ruler of the land

"My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king. A few! beneath your royal notice, sir," Replied Lord Pembroke-" Stir, my lord, stir, stir; Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing. "Who's this?-who's this?-who's this fine fellow

here?"

him

Sir Wisky Whiffle is one of those mincing, tittering, tip-toe tripping animalculæ of the times, tha flutter about fine women like flies in a flower garden; as harmless, and as constant, as their shadows, they dangle by the side of beauty, like part of their watch equipage, as glittering, as light, and as useless. And the ladies suffer such things about them, as they wear souffleć gauze, not as things of value, merely to make a purpose, show with; they never say any thing to the but, with an eye-glass in their hands, they stare ladies, as if they were a jury of astronomers, executing a writ of inquiry upon some beautiful planet. They imagine themselves possessed of the power of a rattlesnake, who can, as it is said, fascinate by a look; and that every fine woman must, at first sight, fall into their arms. Ha! who's that, Jack? She's a devilish fine woman; 'pon honour, an immensely lovely creature! Who is she? she must be one of us; she must be

at

come-atable, 'pon honour." No, sir," replied a stranger that overheard him, "she is not come-atable; she's a lady of strict virtue."- "Is she so ?-I'll look at her again; ay, ay, she may be a lady of strict virtue, for, now I look at her again, there is something devilish ungenteel about her."

LORD MANSFIELD'S WIG.

Court of Requests,— Williams v. Lawrence. This was a case which, by the parties concerned, was considered of no small importance; and which, to the auditors, in the course of its discussion excited no small merriment.

Mr. Williams, who is what is vulgarly called a barber, but in more refined language is termed a perruquier, appeared in this court a short time since, and obtained a summons against the defendant, who