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And who, while memory loves to dwell

How pleasant, from that dome-crowned hill,
Upon her name for ever dear,

To view the varied scene below,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,

Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

The circling Thames' majestic flow!
I did it; and would fate allow,

How sweet, as indolently laid,
Should visit still, should still deplore-

We overhung that long-drawn dale,
But health and strength have left me now,

To watch the checkered light and shade
And I, alas! can weep no more.

That glanced upon the shifting sail !
Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,

And when the shadow's rapid growth
The last I offer at thy shrine ;

Proclaimed the noontide hour expired,
Thy grave must then undecked remain,

And, though unwearied, ' nothing loath,

We to our simple meal retired ;
And all thy memory fade with mine.

The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
And can thy soft persuasive look,

The careless mind's spontaneous flow,
Thy voice that might with music vie,

Gave to that simple meal a zest
Thy air that every gazer took,

Which richer tables may not know.
Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

The babe that on the mother's breast
Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Has toyed and wantoned for a while,
Thy courage by no ills dismayed,

And sinking in unconscious rest,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,

Looks up to catch a parting smile ;
Thy gay good-humour, can they sade ?

Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
Perhaps—but sorrow dims my eye ;

When, ere thy ruby lips could part-
Cold turf which I no more must view,

As close to mine thy cheek was laid-
Dear name which I no more must sigh,

Thine eyes had opened all thy heart.
A long, a last, a sad adieu !

Then, then I marked the chastened joy

That lightly o'er thy features stole, The above affecting elegiac stanzas were written From vows repaid—my sweet employby Gifford on a faithful attendant who died in his

From truth, from innocence of soul : service. He erected a tombstone to her memory

While every word dropt on my ear in the burying-ground of Grosvenor Chapel, South

So soft-and yet it seemed to thrillAudley Street, with the following inscription and

So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, epitaph :

And e'en thy pause had music still. Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than And oh ! how like a fairy dream twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died

To gaze in silence on the tide, February 6th, 1815, in the forty-third year of her age, of

While soft and warm the sunny gleam a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with ex.

Slept on the glassy surface wide ! emplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful

And many a thought of fancy bred, testimony of her uncommon worth and of his perpetual

Wild, soothing, tender, undefined,

Played lightly round the heart, and shed gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meri

Delicious languor o'er the mind. torious services.

So hours like moments winged their flight, Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest,

Till now the boatmen on the shore, Still lives thy memory in one grateful breast,

Impatient of the waning light,
That traced thy course through many a painful year,

Recalled us by the dashing oar.
And marked thy humble hope, thy pious fear.
Oh! when this frame, which yet, while life remained, Well, Anna, many days like this
Thy duteous love, with trembling hand sustained,

I cannot, must not hope to share ;
Dissolves—as soon it must-may that blest Power

For I have found an hour of bliss
Who beamed on thine, illume my parting hour!

Still followed by an age of care.
So shall I greet thee where no ills annoy,
And what was sown in grief is reaped in joy :

Yet oft when memory intervenes

But you, dear maid, be happy still,
Where worth, obscured below, bursts into day,
And those are paid whom earth could never pay.

Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,

The day we passed on Greenwich Hill.

Greenwich Hill.

First OF MAY.
Though clouds obscured the morning hour,

And keen and eager blew the blast,
And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,

As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed :
All soon, propitious to our prayer,

Gave promise of a brighter day ;
The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blasts in zephyrs died away.
So have we, love, a day enjoyed,

On which we both-and yet, who knows !-
May dwell with pleasure unalloyed,

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.

THE ANTI-JACOBIN POETRY. We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication, various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution ; and as party-spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate in this loyal warfare was Mr J. H. FRERE (noticed occasion. But God forbid that that occasion should in a subsequent section), and GEORGE CÀNNING arise. After a war sustained for nearly a quarter of a (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and states-century-sometimes single-handed, and with all Europe man fills so large a space in the modern history arranged at times against her or at her side, England of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, needs a period of tranquillity, and may enjoy it without full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder. than feeling and principle, he exerted them in

In this piece, Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions support of the existing administration. Previous of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that to this, he had distinguished himself at Eton there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the School for his classical acquirements and literary for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest

rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject talents. To a periodical work, the Microcosm, he he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: contributed several clever essays. Entering parlia- 'Cold was the night-wind : drifting fast the snows fell; ment in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under- Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked ;

When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, secretary of state, and it was at the close of the

Weary and way-sore.' following year that the Anti-Jacobin was commenced, Gifford being editor. The contributions

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey

Needy Knife-grinder ! whither are you going? and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers-a

Rough is your road, your wheel is out of order ; burlesque on the sentimental German drama

Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in 't, and New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire,

So have your breeches ! directed against French principles, and their sup- Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, porters in England. In this poem of New Mör- Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike. ality occur four lines often quoted :

Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, Knives and

Scissors to grind O!' Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe; Bold I can meet-perhaps may turn his blow;

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send,

Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Save, save, oh! save me from the candid friend !

Was it the squire, or parson of the parish,

Or the attorney ? As party effusions, these pieces were highly popu

Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or lar and effective ; and that they are still read

Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ? with pleasure on account of their wit and humour,

Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little and also perhaps on account of their slashing and

All in a lawsuit ? ferocious style, is instanced by the fact, that the Poetry of the Anti-acobin, collected and pub

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom

Paine ?) lished in a separate form, has attained to a sixth

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, edition. The genius of Canning found after

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your wards a more appropriate field in parliament.

Pitiful story. As a statesman, `just alike to freedom and the throne, though somewhat prone to intrigue, and

KNIFE-GRINDER. as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consum

Story! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir mate taste, his reputation is established. He had,

Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant litera

This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle. ture, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public Constables came up for to take me into life, and been so incessantly occupied with its Custody ; they took me before the justice ; cares and duties. From a speech delivered at Justice Oldmixon put me in the parishPlymouth in 1823, we extract a short passage con

Stocks for a vagrant. taining a fine simile :

I should be glad to drink your honour's health in

A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
Ships of the Line in Port.

But for my part, I never love to meddle
The resources created by peace are means of war.

With politics, sir. In cherishing those resources, we but accumulate those

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. means. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d- d first

Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in

vengeancethe waters above your town, is a proof they are devoid

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, of strength, and incapable of being fitted out for action.

Spiritless outcast ! You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in (Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a perfect stillness—how soon upon any call of patriotism,

transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan

thropy.) or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage

Song by Rogero in ' The Rovers.' how quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its Whene'er with haggard eyes I view bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and

This dungeon that I'm rotting in, awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these I think of those companions true magnificent machines when springing from inaction

Who studied with me at the Uinto a display of its might-such is England herself :

niversity of Gottingen, while apparently passive and motionless, she silently

niversity of Gottingen.


a peg to


[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his the Pursuits of Literature, in four parts, the first of eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.)

which appeared in 1794. Though published anonSweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, ymously, this work was written by Mr THOMAS Which once my love sat knotting in

JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who Alas, Matilda then was true !

died at Naples in 1835. Mr Mathias was someAt least I thought so at the U.

time treasurer of the household to her majesty niversity of Gottingen,

Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B.A. in niversity of Gottingen.

Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the (At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in Pursuits of Literature, Mr Mathias was author of cadence.)

some Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue; Barbs! barbs! alas ! how swist you flew The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George Her neat post-wagon trotting in !

III. (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope, a Ye bore Matilda from my view ;

satirical poem (1798); and various other light Forlorn I languished at the U

evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr niversity of Gottingen,

Mathias also wrote some Latin odes, and translated niversity of Gottingen.

into Italian several English poems. He wrote This faded form ! this pallid hue !

Italian with elegance and purity, and it has been This blood my veins is clotting in,

said that no Englishman, since the days of Milton, My years are many—they were few

has cultivated that language with so much success. When first I entered at the U

The Pursuits of Literature contains some pointed niversity of Gottingen,

satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and niversity of Gottingen.

is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which There first for thee my passion grew,

there is a great display of learning. George Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen !

Steevens said the poem was merely
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu-

hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical tor, law professor at the U

genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been niversity of Gottingen,

fatal to Mr Mathias. His works appear to be niversity of Gottingen.

utterly forgotten.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in :

Here doomed to starve on water gru-

DR JOHN WOLCOT (1738-1819) was a
el, never shall I see the U.
niversity of Gottingen,

but lively satirist, who, under the name of ‘Peter niversity of Gottingen.*

Pindar,' published a variety of effusions on the

topics and public men of his times, which were (During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them

the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play III., who was a good subject for the poet ; though till it is wholly fallen.)

the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad The following epitaph on his son who died in subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dod1820, shews that Canning could write in a brooke, a village in Devonshire, in the year 1738. tender and elegiac as well as satirical strain.

His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intend

ing that he should become his own assistant and Mr Canning's Epitaph on his Son.

successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees, medicine, and 'walked the hospitals' in London, Which made that shortened span one long disease, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope

William Trelawney, governor of that island, who For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope, Meek resignation, pious charity;

had engaged him as his medical attendant. The

social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourAnd, since this world was not the world for thee, Far from thy path removed, with partial care,

ite in Jamaica ; but his time being only partly Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare ;

employed by his professional avocations, he solicBade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,

ited and obtained from his patron the gift of a And fixed on Heaven thine unreverted eye!

living in the church, which happened to then Oh! marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies! vacant. The bishop of London ordained the In youth, with more than learning's wisdom wise ! graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon his As sainted martyrs, patient to endure !

sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure !

of negroes, and Sunday being their principal Pure from all stain-save that of human clay, holiday and market, the attendance at the church Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away : was very limited. Sometimes not a single person By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,

came, and Wolcot and his clerk, the latter being Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!

an excellent shot-used at such times, after waitWhile I-reversed our nature's kindlier doomPour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.

ing for ten minutes, to proceed to the sea-side, to

enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed pigeons ! A satirical poem, which attracted much attention The death of Sir William Trelawney cut off all in literary circles at the time of its publication, was

further hopes of preferment, and every induce

ment to a longer residence in the island. Bidd* It is stated by Mr C. Edmonds, editor of Poetry of the Anti- ing adieu to Jamaica and the church, Wolcot Jacobin (1854), that the above song having been accidentally accompanied Lady Trelawney to England, and seen, previous to its publication, by Mr Pict, he was so amused with established himself as a physician at Truro, in it that he took a pen, and composed the last stanza on the Cornwall. He inherited about £2000 by the death



of his uncle. While resident at Truro, Wolcot payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. discovered the talents of Opie

This handsome allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy The Cornish boy in tin-mines bred —

loss of the other parties, for upwards of twenty

years. Neither old age nor blindness could repress whose genius as an artist afterwards became so his witty vituperative attacks. He had recourse distinguished. He also materially assisted to form to an amanuensis, in whose absence, however, his taste and procure him patronage; and when he continued to write himself, till within a short Opie's name was well established, the poet and period of his death. His method was to tear a his protégé, forsaking the country, repaired to sheet of paper into quarters, on each of which he London, as affording a wider field for the exertions wrote a stanza of four or six lines, according to of both. Wolcot had already acquired some distinc- the nature of the poem : the paper he placed on a tion by his satirical efforts ; and he now poured book held in the left hand, and in this manner forth a series of odes and epistles, commencing not only wrote legibly, but with great ease and with the Royal Academicians, whom he ridiculed celerity. In 1796, his poetical effusions were with great success and some justice. In 1785 he collected and published in four volumes 8vo, and produced no less than twenty-three odes. In 1786 subsequent editions have been issued ; but most he published The Lousiad, a Heroi-comic Poem, in of the poems have sunk into oblivion. Few five cantos, which had its foundation in the fact, satirists can reckon on permanent popularity, and that an obnoxious insect-either of the garden or the poems of Wolcot were in their nature of an the body—had been discovered on the king's plate ephemeral description ; while the recklessness of among some green peas, which produced a solemn his censure and ridicule, and the want of decency, decree that all the servants in the royal kitchen of principle, and moral feeling, that characterises were to have their heads shaved. In the hands nearly the whole, precipitated their downfall. He of an unscrupulous satirist like Wolcot, this died at his house in Somers' Town on the 14th ridiculous incident was an admirable theme. The January 1819, and was buried in a vault in the publication of Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, close Hebrides afforded another tempting opportunity, to the grave of Butler.' Wolcot was equal to and he indited a humorous poetical epistle to the Churchill as a satirist, as ready and versatile in biographer, commencing :

his powers, and possessed of a quick sense of the O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,

ludicrous, as well as a rich vein of fancy and Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame ;

humour. Some of his songs and serious effusions Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth

are tender and pleasing ; but he could not write To eat Macpherson 'midst his native north ;

long without sliding into the ludicrous and burTo frighten grave professors with his roar,

lesque. His critical acuteness is evinced in his And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore, Odes to the Royal Academicians, and in various All hail ! .

passages scattered throughout his works; while Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail, his ease and felicity, both of expression and illusThe pilot of our literary whale ;

tration, are remarkable. In the following terse Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

and lively lines, we have a good caricature sketch Close as a supple courtier to a king ;

of Dr Johnson's style :
Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power ;
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had blessed thine eyes, That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies :

Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee—no bad hack-

To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; A tomtit twittering on an eagle's back.

Uplists the club of Hercules—for what ?

To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat? In addition to this effusion, Wolcot levelled

Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw another attack on Boswell, entitled Bozzy and

A goose's feather or exalt a straw; Piozzi, or the British Biographers. The personal Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatterhabits of the king were ridiculed in Peeps at St

To force up one poor nipperkin of water ; James's, Royal Visits, Lyric Odes, &c. Sir Joseph

Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar, Banks was another subject of his satire :

To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore ;

Alike in every theme his pompous art,
A president, in butterflies profound,

Heaven's awful thunder or a imbling cart !
Or whom all insect-mongers sing the praises,
Went on a day to hunt this game renowned,
On violets, dunghills, nettle-tops, and daisies, &c.

The Pilgrims and the Peas.
He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureat ; A brace of sinners, for no good,
Peter's Pension; Peter's Prophecy; Epistle to a

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Fallen Minister; Epistle to James Bruce, Esq.,

Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood, the Abyssinian Traveller; Odes to Mr Painé; Odes

And in a curled white wig looked wondrous fine. to Kien Long, Emperor of China; Ode to the Fisty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, Livery of London, and brochures of a kindred de- With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; scription on most of the celebrated events of the In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, day. From 1778 to 1808, above sixty of these poeti- The priest had ordered peas into their shoes. cal pamphlets were issued by Wolcot. So for

A nostrum famous in old popish times midable was he considered, that the ministry, as For purifying souls that stunk with crimes, he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to silence.

A sort of apostolic salt, He also boasted that his writings had been trans- That popish parsons for its powers exalt, lated into six different languages. In 1795, he For keeping souls of sinners sweet, obtained from his booksellers an annuity of £250, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.


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The knaves set off on the same day,

Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she ; ‘I never knew Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

That folks did apple dumplings sew;. But very different was their speed, I wot :

No !' cried the staring monarch with a grin; One of the sinners galloped on,

‘How, how the devil got the apple in?' Light as a bullet from a gun; The other limped as if he had been shot.

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed

By which the apple lay so sly concealed, One saw the Virgin, soon peccavi cried ;

Which made the Solomon of Britain start; Had his soul whitewashed all so clever,

Who to the palace with full speed repaired, When home again he nimbly hied,

And queen and princesses so beauteous scared Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

All with the wonders of the dumpling art. In coming back, however, let me say,

There did he labour one whole week to shew He met his brother rogue about half-way,

The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker ; Hobbling with outstretched hams and bending knees,

And, lo ! so deep was majesty in dough,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;

The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathising with his groaning feet.

Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majesties. 'How now!' the light-toed whitewashed pilgrim

Full of the art of brewing beer, broke,

The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame ; * You lazy lubber ! * Confound it ! cried the t'other, ''tis no joke ;

Quoth he unto the queen : 'My dear, my dear,

Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. My feet, once hard as any rock,

Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brewAre now as soft as blubber.

Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew. Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear :

Shame, shame we have not yet his brew-house seen !' As for Loretto, I shall not get there ;

Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen.
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe !

Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made :

Poor gentleman ! most terribly afraid ' But, brother sinner, do explain

He should not charm enough his guests divine, How 'tis that you are not in pain

He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks ; What power hath worked a wonder for your toes— And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,

To make the apprentices and draymen fine : Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,

Busy as horses in a field of clover, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools were tumbled over,

Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation, "How is 't that you can like a greyhound go,

To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.
Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye?'
"Why,' cried the other, grinning, you must know
That just before I ventured on my journey,

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, To walk a little more at ease,

To visit the first brewer in the land;
I took the liberty to boil my peas.'

Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner, christened Chiswell Street;

But oftener, charmed with fashionable air,
The Apple Dumplings and a King.

Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.
Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,
Whipping and spurring,

His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise,, Happy in worrying

With Lady Harcourt, joined the raree show A poor defenceless harmless buck

And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes : The horse and rider wet as muck

For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Entered through curiosity a cot,
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

Thus was the brew-house filled with gabbling noise,

Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys, The wrinkled, blear-eyed good old granny,

Devoured the questions that the king did ask ; In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny,

In different parties were they staring seen, Had finished apple dumplings for her pot :

Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen! In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask. When lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, Like lightning spoke: What's this ? what's this?

Some draymen forced themselves—a pretty luncheonwhat, what?

Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon : Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,

And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye,

To view and be assured what sort of things
His eyes with admiration did expand ;
And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he

Were princesses, and queens, and kings,
cried :

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh !

And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan, ''Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed !

Few were the mouths that had not got a man !
What makes it, pray, so hard ?' The dame replied,
Low curtsying: 'Please your majesty, the apple.'

Now majesty into a pump so deep "Very astonishing indeed ! strange thing !'

Did with an opera-glass so curious peep: Turning the dumpling round-rejoined the king. Examining with care each wondrous matter ''Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is

That brought up water !
It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces :
Strange I should never of a dumpling dream !

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,
But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam?' A chattering bird we often meet,

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