THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. FROM his brimstone bed at break of day To visit his snug little farm the Earth, Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain, He saw a Turnkey in a trice move If a man be but used to his trade." He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man And backward and forward he switch'd Which put him in mind of the long his long tail, As a gentleman switches his cane. And how then was the Devil drest? His jacket was red and his breeches were And there was a hole where the tail came through. He saw a Lawyer killing a viper On a dunghill hard by his own stable; He saw an Apothecary on a white horse And the Devil thought of his old friend He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility; debate On the Slave-trade abolition. He saw an old acquaintance As he pass'd by a Methodist meeting; She holds a consecrated key, And the Devil nods her a greeting. She turn'd up her nose, and said, Avaunt!—my name's Religion !" And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon. A minister to his mind, The Devil quoted Genesis, Like a very learned clerk, And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin He took from the poor, He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop; Down the river did glide, with wind and A pig with vast celerity, And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how, the while, It cut its own throat. "There!" quoth he with a smile, "Goes England's commercial prosperity." As he went through Coldbath Fields he saw A solitary cell; And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving his prisons in Hell. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And little bread shall do me stead Much bread I nought desire. I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, The tears run down her cheek; Even as a malt-worm shold; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily trowl'd, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old! Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! JOHN STILL. THE JOVIAL Beggar. THERE was a jovial beggar, He had a wooden leg, And a-begging we will go, A bag for his oatmeal, Another for his salt, And a long pair of crutches, And a-begging we will go. A bag for his wheat, And a little bottle by his side, And a-begging we will go. Seven years I begg'd For my old master Wilde, He taught me how to beg When I was but a child. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go. I begg❜d for my master, And got him store of pelf, But, Goodness now be praised, I'm begging for myself. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go. In a hollow tree I live, and pay no rent, And a-begging we will go, Of all the occupations, A beggar's is the best, For whenever he's a-weary, He can lay him down to rest. And a-begging we will go, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go. I fear no plots against me, Will go, will go, And a-begging we will go. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. MAY the Babylonish curse If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), Half my love, or half my hate: Sooty retainer to the vine, 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring 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 height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, 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 Some few vapors thou may'st raise, 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 reformed 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 sov'reign 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. Stinking'st 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; And, instead of Dearest Miss, But no other way they know Or as men, constrain'd to part For I must (nor let it grieve thee, THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. AN Attorney was taking a turn, In shabby habiliments dress'd; His coat it was shockingly worn, And the rust had invested his vest. His breeches had suffer'd a breach, His linen and worsted were worse; He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, And not half a crown in his purse. And thus as he wander'd along.. A cheerless and comfortless elf, He sought for relief in a song, Or complainingly talk'd to himself:"Unfortunate man that I am! I've never a client but grief: The case is, I've no case at all, And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief! "I've waited and waited in vain, Expecting an opening' to find, Where an honest young lawyer might gain Some reward for toil of his mind. ""Tis not that I'm wanting in law, Or lack an intelligent face, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. That others have cases to plead, For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, CHARLES LAMB. Alas! wild Echo, with a moan, In the wide world I am alone; Ha ha! my only client's-dead! In vain the robing-room I seek; The very waiters scarcely bow; Their looks contemptuously speak, "He's lost his only client now." E'en the mild usher, who, of yore, Would hasten when his name I said, To hand in motions, comes no more; He knows my only client's dead. Ne'er shall I, rising up in court, Open the pleadings of a suit: Ne'er shall the judges cut me short While moving them for a compute. No more with a consenting brief Shall I politely bow my head; Where shall I run to hide my grief? Alas! my only client's dead. Imagination's magic power Brings back, as clear as clear can be, The spot, the day, the very hour, When first I sign'd my maiden plea. In the Exchequer's hindmost row I sat, and some one touch'd my head; He tender'd ten-and-six, but oh! That only client now is dead. "HORATIUS FLACCUS, B. C. 8," There's not a doubt about the date,- As you remarked, the seasons roll, Since, mourned of men and Muses nine. And that was centuries ago! Since last you trod the Sacred Street, Ours is so far-advanced an age! |