HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James: I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man; And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see, Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society; Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen; And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled upon the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James, And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

BRET HARTE.

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. POPULARLY KNOWN AS "THE HEATHEN CHINEE."

Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar: Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies, Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was euchre. The same He did not understand, But he smiled, as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four jacks,— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts. And we found on his nails, which were taper,— What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— Which the same I am free to maintain.

BRET HARTE.

A PLANTATION DITTY.

De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me, En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see Hit ain't nobody but des po' me, En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

FRANK LEBBY STANTON.

DE FUST BANJO.

Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. Keep silence fur yo' betters!—don't you hear de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!— About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn— Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column— An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle— An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon 's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!—it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drowned out—'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat—an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck—'t wuz berry long an' tap'rin'; He tuk some tin an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'rs so long an' thick an' strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin'; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—'t wuz "Nebber min' de wedder,"— She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange—der 's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar's de banjo an' an' de 'possum!

IRWIN RUSSELL.

PERILS OF THINKING.

A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run.

ANONYMOUS.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR.

You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah! Whar is you tryin' to go, sah? I'd hab you fur to know, sah, I's a-holdin' ob de lines. You better stop dat prancin', You's paw'ful fond ob dancin', But I'll bet my yeah's advancin' Dat I'll cure you ob yo' shines.

Look heah, mule! Better min' out; Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out How quick I'll wear dis line out On your ugly, stubbo'n back. You needn't try to steal up; An' lif' dat precious heel up; You's got to plough dis fiel' up, You has, sah, fur a fac'.

Dar, dat's de way to do it; He's comin' right down to it; Jes watch him ploughin' troo it! Dis nigger ain't no fool. Some folks dey would 'a' beat him; Now, dat would only heat him— I know just how to treat him: You mus' reason wid a mule.

He minds me like a nigger. If he wuz only bigger He'd fotch a mighty figger, He would, I tell you! Yes, sah! See how he keeps a-clickin'! He's as gentle as a chicken, And nebber thinks o' kickin'— Whoa dar! Nebuchadnezzah!

Is this heah me, or not me? Or is de debbil got me? Wuz dat a cannon shot me? Hab I laid heah more 'n a week? Dat mule do kick amazin'! De beast was sp'iled in raisin'; But now I spect he's grazin' On de oder side de creek.

IRWIN RUSSELL.

A LIFE'S LOVE.

I loved him in my dawning years— Far years, divinely dim; My blithest smiles, my saddest tears, Were evermore for him. My dreaming when the day began, The latest thought I had, Was still some little loving plan To make my darling glad.

They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles, That other children wear; To me his face, in frowns or smiles, Was never aught but fair. They said that self was all his goal, He knew no thought beyond; To me, I know, no living soul Was half so true and fond.

In love's eclipse, in friendship's dearth, In grief and feud and bale, My heart has learnt the sacred worth Of one that cannot fail; And come what must, and come what may. Nor power, nor praise, nor pelf, Shall lure my faith from thee to stray. My sweet, my own—Myself.

ANONYMOUS.

DARWIN.

There was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair grew curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist, Then he was a Man and a Positivist.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALLER.

Come! fill a fresh bumper,—for why should we go

logwood While the ~~nectar~~ still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction Pour out the ~~rich juices~~ still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the ~~rubies~~ shall run.

half-ripened apples The ~~purple-globed clusters~~ their life-dews have bled;

taste sugar of lead How sweet is the ~~breath~~ of the ~~fragrance they shed~~!

rank-poisons wines!!! For summer's ~~last roses~~ lie hid in the ~~wines~~

stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by ~~maidens who laughed through the vines~~.

scowl howl scoff sneer Then a ~~smile~~, and a ~~glass~~, and a ~~toast~~, and a ~~cheer~~,

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For ~~all the good wine, and we 've some of it here~~!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! ~~Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all~~!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

HOLLOW HOSPITALITY. FROM "SATIRES" BOOK III. SAT. 3.

The courteous citizen bade me to his feast With hollow words, and overly [7] request: "Come, will ye dine with me this holiday?" I yielded, though he hoped I would say nay: For I had maidened it, as many use; Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse. "Alack, sir, I were loath—another day,— I should but trouble you;—pardon me, if you may." No pardon should I need; for, to depart He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart. Two words for money, Darbyshirian wise: (That's one too many) is a naughty guise. Who looks for double biddings to a feast, May dine at home for an importune guest. I went, then saw, and found the great expense; The face and fashions of our citizens. Oh, Cleopatrical! what wanteth there For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheer? Beef, that erst Hercules held for finest fare; Pork, for the fat Bœotian, or the hare For Martial; fish for the Venetian; Goose-liver for the licorous Roman; Th' Athenian's goat; quail, Iolaus' cheer; The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deer; Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Pluto's mouth, And chestnuts fair for Amarillis' tooth. Hadst thou such cheer? wert thou ever there before? Never,—I thought so: nor come there no more. Come there no more; for so meant all that cost: Never hence take me for thy second host. For whom he means to make an often guest, One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.

DR. JOSEPH HALL.

A RECIPE. ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. Air.—"Scots wha hae."

Cooks who'd roast a sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig; So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell, Therefore on that point to dwell Were absurdity).

Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the pig's interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that 's rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, Till the pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before 'T is for serving fit. Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a buttered cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut—not tear— Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the pig in two. Chop the sage and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O'er it melted butter spread,— Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me!

PUNCH'S Poetical Cookery Book.

A RECIPE FOR SALAD.

To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half suspected, animate the whole; Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault To add a double quantity of salt; Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar, procured from town; And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce. O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat! 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl; Serenely full, the epicure would say, "Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day."

SYDNEY SMITH.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou who, when fears attack, Bid'st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they 've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones—(who, I 'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

CHARLES S. CALVERLEY.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate; For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine! Bacchus' black servant, negro fine! Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses, or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem; And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters,—that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do,— As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou mayst raise The weak brain may serve to amaze; But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born! The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume, Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite— Nay rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'T was but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexèd lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of dearest Miss, Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her cockatrice and siren, Basilisk, and all that 's evil, Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, Monkey, ape, and twenty more; Friendly trait'ress, loving foe,— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know, A contentment to express Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.

Or, as men, constrained to part With what 's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.

CHARLES LAMB.

TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE.

The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear, To test Lothario's passion, simply said: "Forego the weed before we go to wed. For smoke take flame; I 'll be that flame's bright fanner: To have your Anna, give up your Havana." But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch, Lit his cigar and threw away his match.

ANONYMOUS.

FROM "LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM."

PROLOGUE. Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore To see the poet, when the goods play out, Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout His skate to two-step sonnets off galore? Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout And sends a batch of sonnets to the store.

The sonnet is a very easy mark, A James P. Dandy as a carry-all For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark Just why their crop of thinks is running small. On the low down, dear Mame, my looty loo, That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you.

EPILOGUE. To just one girl I've turned my sad bazoo, Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred, And as I've tipped the straight talk every word, If you don't like it you know what to do. Perhaps you think I've handed out to you An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd As any sky-blue-pink canary bird, Billed for a record season at the Zoo.

If that's your guess you'll have to guess again, For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory, And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain The sum and substance of my hard-luck story, Showing how Vanity is still on deck And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck.

WALLACE IRWIN.

A SADDENED TRAMP.

"Now unto yonder wood-pile go, Where toil till I return; And feel how proud a thing it is A livelihood to earn." A saddened look came o'er the tramp; He seemed like one bereft. He stowed away the victuals cold, He—saw the wood, and left.

ANONYMOUS.

III. PARODIES: IMITATIONS. ——————

THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

Behold the mansion reared by dædal Jack.

See the malt, stored in many a plethoric sack, In the proud cirque of Ivan's bivouac.

Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade The golden stores in John's pavilion laid.

Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides,— Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent.

Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault, That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt; Stored in the hallowed precincts of the hall That rose complete at Jack's creative call.

Here stalks the impetuous cow, with the crumpled horn, Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn, Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast, that slew The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through The textile fibres that involved the grain That lay in Hans' inviolate domain.

Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew, Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn, The harrowing hound, whose braggart bark and stir Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur Of puss, that with verminicidal claw Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw Lay reeking malt, that erst in Ivan's courts we saw.

Robed in senescent garb, that seemed, in sooth, Too long a prey to Chronos' iron tooth, Behold the man whose amorous lips incline, Full with young Eros' osculative sign, To the lorn maiden, whose lac-albic hands Drew albu-lactic wealth from lacteal glands Of the immortal bovine, by whose horn, Distort, to realm ethereal was borne The beast catulean, vexer of that sly Ulysses quadrupedal who made die The old mordacious rat, that dared devour Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower.

Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked In Hymen's golden bands the torn unthrift, Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift, Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn, Who milked the cow with the implicated horn, Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied, That dared to vex the insidious muricide, Who let auroral effluence through the pelt Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built.

The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last, Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast, Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament To him who, robed in garments indigent, Exosculates the damsel lachrymose, The emulgator of that hornèd brute morose That tossed the dog that worried the cat that kilt The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. [8] FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order. Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't; So have your breeches!

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all day, "Knives and Scissors to grind O!"

Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER. Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

GEORGE CANNING.