The practical elocutionist

He came-inquired the wounds and spasms
Of all the mistresses and masters;
Applied lint-poultice-balsams-plasters,
And cataplasms,

Bandaging some, and letting others blood,
And then ran home to tell how matters stood.
Like Garrick 'twixt Thalia and Melpomene,
His wife put on her tragi-comic features:
She had a heart-but also an uncommon eye

To the main chance-and so she cried, "Poor creatures!

Dear me-how shocking to be wounded thus !— A famous God-send, certainly, for us!

Don't tell me any more, my dear Cathartic,

"The horrid story really makes my heart ache. "One broken rib-an ankle sprained-that's worse; "I mean that's better, for it lasts the longer; "Those careless coachmen are the traveller's curse, How lucky that they had n't got to Ongar! Two bad contusions-several ugly wounds, "Why this should be a job of fifty pounds!

So now there's no excuse for being stingy; 'Tis full twelve years-no matter when it was— "At all events, the parlour's horrid dingy, And now it shall be painted-that is poz!"

The painters come-two summer days they give
To scrape acquaintance with each panel;
Then mix the deadly stuff by which they live,
(The smell's enough to make the stoutest man ill),
And now, in all their deleterious glory,

They fall upon the wainscot con amore;

The parlour's done-you wouldn't know the room,
It looks four times as large, and eight times lighter;
But most unluckily, as that grew whiter,

The hall looked less, and put on tenfold gloom.

There's no use doing things by halves, my dear,

We must just titivate the hall, that's clear."

"Well, be it so, you've my consent, my love,
"But when that's done, the painters go, by Jove!"

They heard him, and began. All hurry-scurry,
They set to work instanter,

But presently they slackened from their hurry
Into a species of snail's canter.
The surgeon, who had had his fill

Of stench, and trembled for his bill,
Saw day by day, with aggravated loathing,
That they were only dabbling, paddling,
Twiddling, and fiddle-faddling,

And helping one another to do nothing;
So called the foreman in, and begged to know,
As a great favour, when they meant to go.

Why," quoth the honest man, scratching his nob,
Not afore master gets another job."

The surgeon stormed and swore, but took the hint,
Laid in a double stock of lint,

And to his patients at the "Plough" dispenses,
Week after week, new pills and plasters;
Looks very grave on their disasters,

And will not answer for the consequences,
If they presume to use their arms or feet,
Before their cure is quite complete.

No, no," he mutters, "they shall be "Served as the painters treated me;

And, if my slowness they reproach, "I'll tell them they shall leave the place The moment there's another race

Run by the patent safety coach."

HORACE SMITH,

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand.

Hark ye," said he, “'tis an odd story this

"About the crows!" "I dont know what it is,"

Replied his friend. "No! I'm surprised at that,—
Where I come from it is the common chat:

"But you shall hear an odd affair indeed! "And that it happened they are all agreed: "Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman who lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the Alley knows, Taking a vomit, threw up three black crows!" "Impossible!" Nay, but 'tis really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you." From whose, I pray?" So, having named the man, Straight to enquire, his curious comrade ran.

Sir, did you tell?" relating the affair.

Yes, sir, I did; and, if 'tis worth your care

"Twas Mr.-such an one-who told it me;

But by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three!”
Resolved to trace so wond'rous an event,

Quick to the third the virtuoso went.

"Sir," and so forth.

Though in regard to

"Why yes; the thing is fact,
number not exact :

It was not two black crows, 'twas only one; “The truth of that you may depend upon;

'Where may I find him ?” Why, in"-such a place. Away he went, and having found him out,

Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred,

And begged to know if true what he had heard : "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"

"Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

"Not I!"

Black' crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; 'And here, I find, all comes at last to none!

Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?"

Crow-crow-perhaps I might; now I recall The matter over. And pray, sir, what was't?" "Why I was horrid sick, and at the last

I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,

66 Something that was-as black, sir, as a crow."

DR. BYROM.

THE TINKER AND THE GLAZIER.

SINCE gratitude, 'tis said, is not o'er common,
And friendly acts are pretty near as few;

With high and low, with man, and eke with woman,
With Turk, with Pagan, Christian, and with Jew ;
We ought, at least, whene'er we chance to find
Of these rare qualities a slender sample,
To show they may possess the human mind,
And try the boasted influence of example.
Who knows how far the novelty may charm?
At all events, it cannot do much harm.
The tale we give, then, and we need not fear
The moral, if there be one, will appear.
Two thirsty souls met on a sultry day,

One Glazier Dick, the other Tom the Tinker;
Both with light purses, but with spirits gay,

And hard it were to name the sturdiest drinker.
Their ale they quaff'd,

And as they swigg'd the nappy,

They both agreed 'tis said,

That trade was wondrous dead;

They joked, sung, laughed,

And were completely happy.

Now Dick, the glazier, feels his bosom burn
To do his friend, Tom Tinker, a good turn ;
And when the heart to friendship feels inclined,
Occasion seldom loiters long behind.

The kettle gaily singing on the fire,

Gives Dick a hint just to his heart's desire;

And while to draw more ale the landlord goes,

Dick in the ashes all the water throws;

Then puts the kettle on the fire again,
And at the tinker winks,

As" trade's success!" he drinks;

Nor doubts the wish'd success Tom will obtain.
Our landlord ne'er could such a toast withstand,
So giving each kind customer a hand,

His friendship, too, display'd

And drank "success to trade!"

But O, how pleasure vanish'd from his eye,
How long and rueful his round visage grew,
Soon as he saw the kettle's bottom fly;
Solder the only fluid he could view.
He rav'd, he caper'd, and he swore,

And cursed the kettle's body o'er and o'er.

"Come, come," says Dick, "fetch us, my friend, more ale, All trades, you know, must live ;

"Let's drink, ' may trade with none of us e'er fail,'

The job to Tom, then give;

And, for the ale he drinks, our lad of metal,

"Take my word for it, soon will mend the kettle."
The landlord yields, but hopes 'tis no offence,
To curse the trade that thrives at his expense.
Tom undertakes the job; to work he goes,
And just concludes it with the evening's close.
Souls so congenial had friends Tom and Dick,
Each might be call'd a loving brother;
Thought Tom, to serve my friend I know a trick,
And one good turn, in truth, deserves another.
Out now he slily slips,

But not a word he said,

The plot was in his head,
And off he nimbly trips,

Swift to a neighbouring church his way he takes;

Nor in the dark,

Misses his mark,

But every pane of glass he quickly breaks.
Back as he goes,

His bosom glows

To think how great will be his friend Dick's joy
At getting so much excellent employ:

Return'd, he beckoning, draws his friend aside-
Importance in his face;

And to Dick's ear his mouth applied,

Thus briefly states the case:

"I've done your business most complete, my friend;